


Menagerie

by forgotten_constellation



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Draco Malfoy, Alpha Harry Potter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Aphrodisiacs, Beta/Omega, Exhibitionism, Ficlet Collection, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Intersex Omegas, Knotting, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Rituals, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Older Man/Younger Man, Omega Draco Malfoy, Omega Harry Potter, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompts Welcome, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Rimming, Scent Kink, Sugar Daddy, Voyeurism, these tags are unruly so ill elaborate in chapter summaries for anything relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgotten_constellation/pseuds/forgotten_constellation
Summary: A collection of A/B/O ficlets and oneshots. Mostly Drarry, but variety will grow as inspiration strikes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 165





	1. First Batch (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a collection of three unrelated ficlets that I've written so far. I've included which tropes/ideas I'm using in each one. Chapters will be much shorter in the future. Coincidentally, all of these are Omega!Draco because that's my preference, but the plan is to branch out more soon!

1

**(Heat, Beta/Omega)**

“Oh, love,” Harry sighs, big warm hands curling around Draco’s aching shoulders. “You must be in so much pain.” 

“I’m not,” Draco protests, more for the game of it than anything. He's sore all over.

He’d been sitting at the living room table pretending to go through their post, but he’s been staring at the scattered envelopes for hours, barely containing the chaotic bursts of his magic, pulsing outward in search of its partner.

Harry smells of ash from the floo, but his familiar musk is there underneath, too. He’s comfort and security and home. Years of careful conversation and exercises in trust eased the fervent anger of their youth, but push and pull will always be part of their relationship. Some of it is a test that Draco will never be able to abandon completely. He has to push. He needs proof that Harry will see the worst of him, plant his feet, and stay.

“You are.” Harry says, hands tightening around Draco’s shoulders.

He slides one warm hand up, calloused fingers squeezing briefly over the column of his neck, and then cupping the underside of his chin, tilting his head back. Draco lets out low purr, and Harry meets him with a croon, lowering his head to press a kiss on his forehead. 

It’s a quick, gentle thing, but it ignites Draco’s skin, sends him tingling and trembling. He was already warm, already deep enough in the throes of his heat that he’d forgone his clothing for a gauzy robe, but Harry’s closeness has him abruptly wanting. There’s a decadence to this, in losing himself to instinct, trusting Harry and his magic to catch him. Harry, dependable and caring Harry, who’d laughed in the face of his father’s protests at some Half-Blood beta having the gall to court his heir, who cheerfully endures his fussing and tongue-in-cheek insults because he loves him.

“I need you,” Draco says, not caring that the pitch of his voice has reached a near whine.

“You have me.” Harry promises. 

He pulls away, and before Draco can even begin to complain about their lack of contact, he’s pulling Draco’s chair from out from underneath the table. He sinks to his knees, smiling when Draco’s thighs part easily for him. He trails his hands up Draco’s thighs, tutting at the slickness he finds there. The flush on Draco’s cheeks deepens. Harry dips his head, trailing his tongue through his slick, tongue hot like a brand. The moan Draco lets out is loud even to his own ears.

Harry cups the back of his thighs and pulls him forwards with the casual kind of strength that always has Draco purring up a storm. He’d be embarrassed by the wet slide of his bottom against the plush chair if not for the way Harry takes his cock into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he takes him in, to the root. It takes a little maneuvering, and then he’s soothing the ache of emptiness curling in Draco’s gut by sliding two fingers into his hole, meeting very little resistance. A warbling cry falls unbidden from Draco’s lips. He presses his hands onto Harry’s shoulders, at once trying to pull him close and push him away, hips restlessly bucking into his hold. Harry’s tongue curls at where precome is oozing out of Draco’s slit, and then he’s gone, whimpering and shaking. The pads of Harry’s fingers--and they always feel so much better than Draco’s own, thicker and stronger and imbued with tingling magic--score across Draco’s prostate, pulling another pulse of climax from him, so powerful it almost hurts. 

It’s not proper, certainly, for a Pureblood omega to spread himself out the way Draco is. It’s not proper, to ride the greed that’s rising in his chest and pushing him to dig his heels into Harry’s back and fuck himself onto those fingers, babbling about how he needs more, that it’s so good, that it’s not enough. But it sure feels right. Harry releases his cock with a pop, curling his free arm around Draco’s leg to drag him forward even more, and then he’s vanishing his trousers and lining himself up and pushing in and Draco can taste himself on Harry’s lips as he leans forward for a kiss and murmurs out, “I love you, Draco,” and it’s too much, it’s _not enough_ , and Draco is falling, falling, falling.

  
  


2.

**(Public Sex/Exhibitionism, Ritual Sex, Intersex Omegas, Knotting)**

“My,” an older Alpha says, as he makes his way into the mating chamber, “haven’t you grown into a pretty thing?” 

Draco’s first instinct is to snap that he’s certainly prettier than any of the sallow-faced spawn this man has ever sired, but then he recognizes him as one of the older Travers second sons (and, most importantly, one of Father’s most important business partners) and keeps his mouth firmly shut. Harry reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing tight, and Draco’s irritation quiets. It’s still there, simmering tightly underneath his skin, but then again, part of it may be the modified amortetia that is racing through his system. Harry had taken its sister potion at the beginning of the day, a tricky brew meant to lower his control on his magic. It will make it easier for them to solidify a mating bond. Draco can feel Harry's enormous magic filling the room almost like a sentient thing, crawling curiously to meet each new visitor before skittering back towards Draco, curling contentedly on his heated skin. It's not quite a heat that Draco is experiencing, but he can feel a trickle of slick making its lazy way down his thigh. It's debasing in the worst way.

It’s worth it, he reminds himself. Harry jumped through every possible hoop to marry him. It’d taken a while to gain that final surrender. For all that Father and Mother frustrate him, family is important to Draco. He’d thought that tradition was important, too, but as more and more of his family’s peers trail into the room and take their seats, he wants to beg for an international portkey and never return. He’s only grateful that he’d managed to veto having his parents in the room. 

The Confirmation is a particularly old-fashioned ritual, designed to ensure the consummation of a Pureblood’s marriage, and the expeditious creation of an heir. They plan to do no such thing tonight, of course--Draco is a deft hand at contraception charms and will not be having children until he feels ready for it--but Father had been clear. No Confirmation, no marriage. It would be foolish to ruin all of their hard work by refusing one night of humiliation. Every spectator is under an Unbreakable Vow. There will be now sharing memories of this night with the press, and rumor is restricted to vague terms that will frustrate the nosiest of wizarding society. Still, it grates at him. Draco wants to gnash his teeth. He knows that half of them are here for the spectacle of witnessing the Boy Who Lived knotting the Malfoy scion until he cries. He knows the rest are here to gain the right to call in favors from his father. A good many of them are just here for a show. He hates them all, passionately and intensely. 

Once all of the assembled chairs are filled--they line all four walls of the large Malfoy mating chamber, surrounding the plush bed on the dais in the center of the room--the ceremony can begin. This is where Draco is supposed to give a speech and thank them all for coming. Instead, he turns to Harry and says, simply, “Make me come.” 

As titters and scandalized gasps sound out into the tense air, Harry grins at him. He hadn't been happy, to hear about this, but he'd accepted it with such grace. Draco loves him for it.

They undo the ties on their robes, and let them fall to the floor. Draco leads him up the dais, and then onto the bed. Mother stubbornly braved Father’s disapproval to affix see-through curtains onto the bed, hoping to afford them the illusion of privacy. A surge of contrarian pride has Draco stilling Harry’s hand when it looks like he might raise his hand to spell them shut. _Let them watch,_ he mouths, climbing onto Harry’s lap. Harry leans up on his elbows to pull him into a deep, toe-curling kiss, rumbling contentedly as Draco nips at his lips. Maybe it’s the magic, or the potion, or the feeling of Harry’s cock heavy and damp against Draco’s slick thighs. Or maybe it’s the feeling of so many hungry eyes on them, but Draco cannot contain the deep moan that builds up in his chest. 

“Want you to ride my face,” Harry says, “you want that, baby?” 

Draco’s nodding before he’s even done talking, but the sound of shuffling has him casting a furtive glance around the room. He doesn’t think he was imagining the alpha Lady Prewett restlessly adjusting her lap (she’d been one of the first people Father wanted him to marry, Draco remembers, and not too quietly displeased when the talks ended), or the covetous look that Daphne Greengrass’ widowed omega mother is shooting Harry’s groin. Possessiveness and lust swirling in his belly, Draco pushes Harry back on the bed and begins shuffling up Harry’s body. Harry curls his hands around Draco’s hips, and then helps him lower his cunt onto Harry’s mouth.

A whining cry tumbles from his lips as Harry flattens his tongue into Draco’s folds, dragging hot and slow from his hole to his clit and latching on with single-minded determination. Thighs trembling, Draco braces one hand against the wall and tangles the other in Harry’s soft, messy hair. For a moment, he misses the sight of his glasses. Usually when they do this, Harry's spectacles are all foggy and askew on his forehead. Harry loves tasting him, and is usually so impatient for it that he doesn't think to remove his glasses, or at least use a sticking arm. Draco is an expert at _oculus reparo_.

Harry interrupts his thoughts by squeezing his arse and urging him into a tight, decadent roll, and Draco's head is filled with static for a good few minutes. Harry likes to tease, but he’s not doing that tonight, pulling out every trick: pausing to suck insistently on Draco’s swollen folds, or pulling away to nip delicately at his thigh and muffling a laugh into his skin when Draco calls him an unkind name and bucks his hips in search of his mouth, or dragging his tongue over Draco’s throbbing clit in quick but insistent circles. Harry reaches up to curl a hand around Draco’s neglected cock, and that’s enough to have him crying out Harry’s name as he shatters apart. Harry twists at his head on the upstroke, milking him until Draco's batting his hand away, oversensitive. Harry dips his tongue into Draco’s hole, giving him something to clench around as he comes. 

“Harry, oh, please, Merlin,” Draco is whimpering, his eyes stinging as he presses his forehead against the headboard.

Harry gently helps him detach, pausing only to carelessly rub his face and hand dry on the nearest pillow and then press a comforting kiss on his shuddering stomach. Draco is pliant and insensate as Harry helps him onto his hands and knees. He runs his hands up and down Draco’s sides, soothing him through the aftershocks, murmuring words of praise into Draco’s neck. 

“Are you ready for me to knot you, Draco?” He asks, and his voice cracks on its huskiness. 

Draco has always liked that--the power of that, the knowledge that he’s the one breaking Harry’s composure. He’d craved it at Hogwarts, in his own way, and he still craves it now. Draco nods, and then he’s widening his knees and lowering his chest onto the bed, presenting himself. He’d like to be doing it just for Harry, not all and sundry. He can still feel their eyes on him like so many small pinpricks, can hear their murmurs of assessment, can smell the rancorous mixture of their arousal in the air. And, above it all, he can just smell Harry--his magic’s distinct ozone smell, and his familiar Alpha scent, heady and comforting. 

“Please, Harry,” he says, wiggling impatiently as Harry shuffles up behind him, well-toned thighs warm against him.

“I’m here,” Harry promises. 

He curls one hand around Draco’s shoulder, pulling him back as he lines the head of his heavy cock against Draco’s entrance, pushing slowly but insistently inside. He lets out a low groan, and then hisses when Draco impishly clenches around him, just the way he likes it. No one in here will be tricked into believing that this is their first time, Draco thinks. He locks eyes with Theo Nott, who’d had to take up the mantle as his family's head Alpha after old Cantankerous was killed fighting for the Dark Lord. Theo had never been especially subtle about his desire for Draco. Draco had delighted in the attention, and enjoyed teasing him, but never had any real intention of indulging him. 

It is mean spirited, but he gets a particular rush out of saying, “Fuck me, Alpha,” because he knows Harry has a weak spot for being called that. Sure enough, Theo's pupils dialate, and Draco's words earn him a particularly heavy thrust from Harry. He can see Theo’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his jaw clenching. Draco winks at him, and then turns his head, curling his hands into the sheets for purchase as he fucks himself back onto Harry’s cock. He’s deliciously thick, dragging against Draco’s sensitive walls like he belongs there. He relaxes when Harry pushes in, heavy balls slapping against him where they’re joined, and squeezes tight when he pulls out, dragging low moans from Harry’s chest. He can feel the beginning of Harry's knot swelling at his base, and it all but ruins his rhythm, his sudden desire to chase it.

It doesn’t feel like there’s any particular build up to his orgasm. It happens between one breath and the next, and then he’s bucking and coming completely untouched, spurting his release onto the sheets below, and then Harry’s rucking his hips up with insistent hands and pushing his knot past inside, the weight of it delicious and heavy as Draco's cunt flutters and contracts around it. Then Harry’s bending over him, his teeth finding the swollen gland on his neck and biting down. Delicious pain blossoming through Draco's neck in waves as those blunt teeth break skin, and they’re finally bound together, for all of Pureblood society to see.

  
  


3.

**(Post Mpreg, Lactation)**

Draco doesn’t know what to make of it, when Harry watches him feed their son. 

He’d been warned to expect it. Everyone from his mother, to his healer, to his giggly friends and tutting family acquaintances, have told him in so many words that Alphas feel the urge to protect during such a vulnerable time. The first time he did it, he’d been exhausted and drained from a difficult home birth, no doubt looking sweaty and disheveled on their bed, as Scorpius snuffled his way to one heavy breast and latched on. Harry had stared until Draco found himself flushing and whining for him to look away, which only worked for about three whole seconds, before those owlish green eyes were back on them.

“You’re horrible,” Draco remembers saying, only for him to let out a tired laugh at Harry’s huffed insistence that it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. 

There’s something a little naughty about the heaviness of that gaze, Draco thinks. Harry is not good at masking his expressions, and Draco has always been very good at watching him. He gets a guilty pleasure out of Harry watching him feed their baby, knowing that he’s pleased him, that he’s brought a new life into their tiny world. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but it gives him a head rush stronger than any cup of expensive aged wine.

Draco makes a point of doing it where Harry can see: at the table for breakfast, or in the rocking chair in Scorpius’ nursery by the window so the light can hit him best, and sometimes in the sitting room. He cherishes the time to bond with their son. He is the best of both of them: blond and already messy haired, and he has Draco’s eyes but Harry’s pouty mouth, and he’s a sleepy, easy-going child. Absurdly, Draco misses him when he sleeps. The time spent together is good. Harry’s eyes on him are good. Maybe he is a deviant for craving both, but it’s nobody’s business.

One day, Scorpius falls asleep, right there on Draco’s chest, and Draco doesn’t have the heart to wake him and make him finish, even though he really should. Harry watches with open curiosity as Draco sighs and carries him over to his crib, not bothering to button his shirt back up. He feels silly, turning to Harry with his small breasts exposed, a lazy dribble of milk trailing down one nipple, still. Predictably, his gaze zeroes in on Draco's chest. 

Draco lets out a breathy little laugh. Feeling a little silly and a lot brave, he quirks up a brow and asks, “Aren’t you going to help me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was once told that if you didn't see enough of something you really wanted to read, you'd eventually end up writing it yourself. This is me doing that, even though I am a full time student and have a bunch of fics that I need to work on. 
> 
> A/B/O fics always tend to combine a variety of kinks and tropes that I'm really into, so I'm challenging myself to just write out ideas I get in short bursts. I also want to break my habit of getting carried away with my writing. Writing fic is supposed to be my destress hobby, but I consistently find myself planning things out, overextending myself and thus straying far from my original ideas, getting annoyed, and not wanting to write at all. I don't want to ruin my own fun, haha. Thus, this idea was born. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> No promises, but feel free to drop some prompts (along with comments)! I may fill some when I need inspiration! It doesn't need to be Drarry.


	2. The Ungodly Hour (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alpha Draco/Omega Harry
> 
> Flangst and smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [x.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwZ_hodT5CA)

WHEN YOU DECIDE YOU LIKE YOURSELF

It’s been a long time coming, Harry thinks, when Draco finally snaps and pulls him into a biting kiss that is more teeth than anything.

He’s always felt that Draco gave up those wands a little too easily, that day. Draco had hexed him harder for smaller offenses in school, and gleefully at that. And when Narcissa Malfoy brushed Harry’s hair aside and asked if her son was alive, there’d been a burst of something like victorious joy, curling in his chest, when he breathed out a “ _Yes_ ,” because that’d been because of him. 

When Draco pulls away and breathes out a low apology, starts babbling about how he should have asked first, Harry says, “Fuck you,” and then he shoves his hand past the stretchy waistband of the Muggle sweatpants Draco’s been wearing to their training days in the Auror program, because apparently he’s out to kill Harry dead. An embarrassingly needy sound tumbles out of his mouth, because Draco is firm and heavy and alive in his hand, and there’s already an impressive knot swelling at his base, and Draco groans and thrusts into his grip and Harry has never felt more wanted. 

“I can’t do this,” Draco is saying, lowly, over and over again. 

It’s completely at odds with the way he chases Harry’s lips with drunken intensity, and the arm that’s curling around his waist hot like a brand, and the impressive erection pulsing in his hand. But Harry knows what it feels like, to be at war with himself. He gets it. Still, the sting of hurt rising in his throat tastes bitter. Some of it, at least, is familiar--Harry may be the world’s savior, but he does know that he’s nobody’s dream Omega. He’s too willful, too unconcerned with his looks. He’s got a horrible temper when it’s riled. He doesn't play ball. He likes that Draco meets him tit for tat, but he might be the only one. It takes all his willpower to let Draco go, to step back. 

“Okay.” Harry says.

Draco leans in, like he might try to steal another kiss, and Harry stills him with a hand on his chest. They’re of a height, Draco only a few inches taller, but he seems _vast_ in this moment, the only thing in Harry’s covetous view, blond and flush and beautiful.

“It’s not you,” Draco says, like he’s desperate for Harry to understand that.

Harry smiles. “I’ll let you figure that out. I’m willing to wait.”

  
  


WHEN YOU DECIDE YOU NEED SOMEONE

It’s a dumb idea, but he owls Draco’s mother about it. 

_Does Draco think he’s not important to me?_ He asks, amidst pleasantries and the most euphemistically worded account of their growing attraction he can muster.

She sends him a reply that’s dripping with polite surprise, inquiring after his health, and his friends, and his work in the Auror program. Then, she finishes with a simply worded post script: _Draco seems to be laboring under the delusion that one’s past determines their future._

Draco bangs on his door a week later. “Bringing my mother into this was a dirty trick, Potter.” 

Harry feels his hackles rising. Maybe it’s a problem that he delights in it. “I didn’t do that to make you feel bad. I just thought she might--um. Give me context.” 

Draco looks at him with wide, astonished eyes. Harry knows this looks. It’s the are-you-dumb-the-answer-is-so-simple-Potter look. Harry crosses his arms over his chest. 

“What context do you need, Potter? Do you need an itemized list of every horrible thing I’ve done to you and yours?” He growls. 

“I’ve forgiven you,” Harry points out. 

“It’s not that simple.” Draco fusses.

“Why ever not?” 

Draco lets out a rumbling growl. It’s not a noise Harry’s ever heard from him, but he’s abruptly craving hearing it again. 

“You’re impossible.” Draco says, at length. 

Harry smiles, and opens his door, beckoning him inside. Grimmauld always seems to ripple with acceptance when Draco stops by, for need of a better word. Something about old family magic. Most old wizarding families are related in some way--Harry’s sure he and Draco share some ridiculously named ancestor, a few generations back--but recent blood means something, to a place as alive with magic as Sirius’ old home. A tension he hadn’t realized he was feeling always rolls off him when Draco steps inside. The low lights shine golden on his wavy hair, and Harry realizes with abruptness that he’s falling in love.

“Yeah, but you like me just fine,” Harry dares to say.

Draco slants an endearingly crooked smile his way. There’s resignation and fondness, in the crook of those lips.

“I suppose I’d be sad, if something were to--happen to you.” 

“Do _you_ want to happen to me?” Harry asks, waggling his brows. 

A dimple pops into place as Draco huffs a surprised laugh. Then he’s crowding into Harry’s space, and Harry can’t be blamed for the speed and intensity with which he’s reaching out to wrap his arms around Draco’s distracting shoulders and pulls him down for the most legendary round of snogging he's every experienced. They make their way up the stairs on fawn legs, trading insults and pet names and promises, and it’s perfect.

There’s something privately wonderful about forgetting themselves, like this. Draco puts up a bit of a fuss when Harry murmurs that he wants him to just lie back and feel. There’s still a lingering vulnerability in his eyes, and it intensifies when Harry unbuttons his shirt and exposes his scars from that fateful day.

“I deserved it,” Draco whispers.

“Shut up,” Harry responds, though not unkindly. They’ve spoken about this at length. Draco is dramatic.

He leans down and kisses along the scar, savoring the silken texture of it, and down the planes of his hard stomach. He digs his nose into the blond curls below Draco’s bellybutton, a little darker than the hair on his head. He savors the smell, Alpha and floral and uniquely Draco, filling his nose and pulling an instinctive purr from his throat. Aside from heats, Harry has never felt a particular pull to his biology. He’s not ashamed of it, he simply hadn’t been raised with the wizarding world’s oddly puritan ideas of the proper kinds of desire, but for the first time he finds himself reveling in it. The knowledge that he’s the one who has Draco’s pheromones and magic radiating out of him feels heady. Powerful.

He undoes Draco’s fly, and Draco barely has time to murmur his name before Harry draws him into his mouth, savoring the heat and the salty taste. Draco slides a hand into his hair, and moans lowly as Harry bobs his head, dedicated to his task. 

“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Draco gasps, hips swiveling restlessly when Harry dips his tongue along his slit. 

Harry gives him a look that he hopes is coy. It’d be really stupid to say, bananas and books and enthusiasm.He hollows his cheek on a powerful suck, and a litany of curses falls from Draco's mouth.

Draco gives him a pouty glare, tightens his hand in Harry’s hair, and says, “Only me, from now on.”

“Only you,” Harry agrees, pulling off, his voice scratchy.

Draco pushes his head back down. Harry’s eyes water, and he weathers through the urge to gag, nearly intoxicated by the proprietary nature of the gesture. He shifts restlessly against his bed, and hopes that he won’t ruin his pants before the night is out.

  
  


WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE TO THINK ABOUT IT

Draco has a thing, about doors. 

Namely, that he hates it when Harry walks into a door before him. It’s a baffling new habit, especially when it comes to Harry’s own home, where Draco has been tentatively spending the night for the past few days, getting a feel for this change in their relationship.

“I swear Kreacher’s not going to kill me!” Harry laughs. Then, he tilts his head, thinking about it. “Yeah, I don’t think he would.” 

Draco scowls at him over his shoulder. “Don’t joke about that, Potty.” 

Uh oh. He only calls Harry that when he’s truly annoyed with him. Harry hasn’t the foggiest what he’s done this time. He’s sometimes convinced that the way he breathes could send Draco on a tear.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out. He runs a hand up Draco’s back, over the curve of his neck. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t, cross my heart.”

Draco glances down at his feet. Harry decides to get settled, give him a moment. He shuts the door behind them, and then gets Draco’s coat for him, admiring the wisp of his hair as it brushes against the fabric. Then he kneels on the floor and begins unlacing Draco’s boots for him, feeling the weight of his gaze on his head.

“Earlier today, at lunch… I tried to give you the rest of my food, and you refused.” 

Harry’s brows furrow. “Okay?” 

He glances up at Draco’s face and is abruptly delighted by the flush there.

“I didn’t like that. I wanted you to eat it.” 

He can see why Draco thought he would laugh, but it just fills Harry with affection. “I’ll eat it next time, I promise. You like taking care of me, Draco?” 

“Yes,” Draco murmurs, like it’s some horrible confession. 

He obligingly lifts a foot when Harry works a boot off, and then the other. His socks follow. There’s an intimacy to this. Harry likes doing it. He understands where Draco is coming from.

“I like taking care of you, too.” He soothes, running a hand up Draco’s calf. 

Draco holds his hands out and helps him back up onto his feet. “Can I take you to bed?” 

Harry smiles, endeared as always by Draco unending propriety. “You had better.” 

There’s a frantic need to the way Draco opens him up, holding his wrists tightly to the bed with one hand, the stretch of his piano fingers a welcome sensation. He kisses Harry like he might find the answer to something between his lips, welcomes the tide of his body with greed and reverence. They’re so impatient that they don’t make it through their usual careful prep, but Harry cherishes that, and the slight burn when Draco pushes in, groaning and dropping his head onto Harry’s neck. He shuffles restlessly around, then shoves a pillow underneath Harry’s hips, and it only takes a few searching thrusts for the head of his cock to score strongly over the aching nub of his prostate, drawing a wanting sob from his lips. 

They rut tightly against each other, holding on tight like they might dissolve into each other, and Harry’s so wet that he can hear each slick thrust in his ears in stereo. Draco’s nipping at his neck, dangerously close to the place that’d join them together inseparably, and the tease of it all has Harry whining Draco’s name and coming like a shot, covering their bellies. Draco swallows his cries down with lips and teeth and tongue, and then he’s widening his knees and pressing flush, and his knot slides inside, and they are no longer the two kids yelling at each other in Hogwarts’ hallways. Draco shudders and fills him with his seed, kissing at Harry’s stinging neck, and they breathe together, sweaty and twisted up. 

Harry smooths Draco’s hair away from his forehead. When his hair is wet, it gets all wavy and curly. It’s one of Harry’s favorite secrets. 

“If you try to run away from me again, I might put a leash on you.” He says. 

Draco giggles deliriously into his skin. “Property of Potty.” 

Harry pinches him on his (unfairly squeezable) arse in retribution, which sends Draco driving against him with a low noise, his knot pulling against Harry's sensitive rim. A pleased tingle runs through him, from his head through his toes. He smiles, kisses Draco’s sweaty temple. There are worse problems to have than someone who needs to be reminded that they’re wanted.


	3. Firsts (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill 1  
>  _Cherubzenitsu: ah, I would love to see a one shot of how their relationship started!_
> 
> Omega!Draco/Alpha!Harry

“To be clear,” Draco begins, as Harry slides into him inch by agonizing inch, “I expect you to take me to dinner after all of this is over, Potter.”

“Of course,” Harry replies, worming a hand underneath them to drag his palm over one of Draco’s pebbled nipples, the other resting low on his belly, a hair’s breadth from where the no-doubt flushed head of his prick is drooling against his skin.

He’d feel insulted that Draco’s coherent enough to be making demands of him if he didn’t recognize that spouting off at the mouth and being annoying are some of his most storied talents. He is, after all, the one who ruined months of careful flirting and planning by asking if Harry was planning on doing anything about his heat. 

“And I want flowers.” Draco adds, his voice trailing off into a keen at the slow rock of Harry’s hips. 

He’s wet, he’s _so_ wet, just for Harry, rim clinging as Harry pulls out and pushes back in, the noise of it decadent and slick. Trapped between the pillows and Harry’s hands, his aborted attempts at movement do little more than frustrate him.

A laugh bursts out of Harry’s chest. “You hate flowers.” He’d learned it the hard way after Draco burned not one, not two, but  _ three _ bouquets, and then preserved the last only because it included a bloom that was a useful potions’ ingredient.

He’s a vision, spread out over a veritable tower of pillows, thighs trembling as Harry seats himself and grinds in deep. A flush spreads like wildfire on that pale skin, and Harry watches with fascination as red sprawls from Draco’s neck and down to cover the planes of his shifting shoulder blades, the curve of his spine. Harry pinches his nipple, and all the muscles in his back tense up.

“Buy me some narcissus flowers so I can give them to mother.” Says Draco, around a moan.

Harry finds himself laughing again, hopeless with affection and desire and incredulity. “Please don’t talk to me about your mother while you’re in heat.” 

“Maybe I wouldn’t be talking if you would just  _ move _ , you bastard-- _ ahh _ ,” 

Harry’d interrupted him with a series of short, shallow thrusts, more to soothe the powerful ache in his own cock than anything, but then Draco’s throwing his head back and clenching around him, and Harry doesn’t realize that he’s coming until Draco thrashes and then reaches back for him. Harry presses his front flush against Draco’s back, hand sliding down to find him spurting his release against the pillows below, hips jolting underneath Harry’s weight.  He kisses the back of Draco’s neck, kisses his sweaty hair, gone golden with the moisture. Draco turns his head, and Harry kisses the corner of his mouth. He wraps a hand around Draco’s length and tugs at him, quick dirty stripes as he works him through his orgasm, savoring the feeling of him pulsing as he whines out Harry’s name.

There’s no more talking, after, that. Draco asks if they can hold hands, and Harry’s all too happy to link their fingers and press their hands into the mattress, fucking him quick and deep, chasing that instinctual pull to give him what he needs, to fill the space that’s made for him. He takes Harry so sweetly, arse jiggling with each push inside. He's finally able to gain purchase on the sheets, and presses himself up to roll back into Harry's thrusts, bucking greedily into the mess he's made of the pillows. H arry comes before he means to, but then he’s pushing his knot inside and Draco’s all but sobbing his relief into the air and shattering around him. They lapse into a dazed silence for a good few minutes, Harry rubbing comforting circles into Draco's hitching stomach.

“I had no idea if I was just annoying you or not.” Harry says, at length.

Draco lets out an inelegant snort. “You _were_ annoying.”

“I am literally inside you.” Harry says.

“So isn’t that proof enough that you did decent work?” Draco hums. Then he says, “It was nice to feel wanted. You were doing fine.” 

Surprised, Harry says, “Of course I wanted you.” 

Then he pinches Draco in the side in a fit of childish reproach, relishing his outraged gasp. Draco complains about the brutality of Alphas, and Harry cheekily suggests that well maybe this Alpha can be trained, and Draco squirms in pleasure at the idea, and they don’t talk again for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This totally got away from me. Sorry, lovely! Hope you like it!


	4. Classroom Hymns, Pt. 1 (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Older!Harry/Younger!Draco
> 
> AU Where Harry is Draco's DADA professor and Draco is the student that's a terrible flirt. As a warning, Draco is 17 in this, which, while legal in the context of this world, may or may not be underage depending on where you live. Either way, he’s a younger person sleeping with someone who is vaguely but significantly older than him. Please skip this chapter if that makes you uncomfortable!
> 
> Feminization / Semi-Public Sex / Power Dynamics (?) / The usual ABO stuff. You know
> 
> The goal with this was to be a cheekily pornish as I could manage, though I'm not sure I succeeded. This is 100% not meant to be taken seriously. It's the epitome of fantasy and would obviously be wildly inappropriate in real life. Thankfully, these are weirdo wizards. There is going to be a followup to this one, because it was getting long and unruly and the point of this whole thing is for me NOT to go overboard. I'll post it when I post it!

Harry has had many enterprising parents throw their newly-of-age children his way, but Draco Malfoy is an interesting one. 

He’s clearly uncomfortable when his mother presents him to Harry in Diagon Alley of all places, while they’re obviously in the middle of shopping for the upcoming school year, but many Pureblood families have been struggling to reestablish themselves in society after the fall of the Dark Lord, so it’s not a great surprise. Harry has fielded more outrageous, less subtle offers while walking through the Ministry’s halls. 

“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa Malfoy says, her hands tight on her son’s tense shoulders as they approach, the young man’s things levitating behind them. 

“Mrs. Malfoy.” Harry says, nodding politely.

“My Draco is starting his _Seventh Year_ ,” Harry doesn’t miss the emphasis she places on the last two words, “and he could not stop talking about how excited he is to have you as his Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. I thought that an introduction would serve him well, to ease his nerves.” The omega woman says. 

Her painted lips curl up into a lovely smile, and there’s a glint in her eyes that’s a step away from nervous and a step towards hopeful, and an acknowledgement in the wry turn of her lips that she’s not being as subtle as she could be.

He’s a lovely thing, to be sure, Harry thinks. Tall, for an omega--taller, even, than Harry--and straight-backed. His light blond hair is cut charmingly short, and his gray eyes meet Harry’s with an intriguing mix of shyness and confidence. Then he follows his mother’s lead and dips into a practiced curtsey, and Harry thinks, oh no, he’s one of _those_ Omegas. Well-trained, and far too polite to be so vulgar as to express interest, but persistent. Very persistent.

Harry holds his hand out for a polite shake. He immediately regrets it when Draco holds his hand out, palm down. Etiquette is ingrained into Pureblood children from their days in leading strings. It’d look wildly rude not to kiss his hand, is what a voice that sounds distressingly like Hermione’s says in his head. So Harry does, brushing his lips against the boy’s soft knuckles, unable to stop himself from pausing at the sweet scent that fills his nose. When he pulls away, Mrs. Malfoy’s smile has widened, and Draco? Draco is suddenly looking at him like he’s hung the moon. Harry curses the very ground he walks on.

It’s all downhill from there. When the term starts, Harry learns many things about Draco that are endearing and contradictory. He’s got an incorrigible sweet tooth, which his friends and family indulge. He likes children and is kind to the nervous first year Slytherins, who quickly learn to go running for him if they are lost or need support. Harry regularly hears other professors marveling over his hard work, a few of them tutting about how such a brilliant mind will go to waste if he ends up being pushed into the traditional marriage he’s no doubt been raised for. 

But the _mouth_ on him. Harry has never in his life heard a person drop more creative insults, and he’d worked with Mad Eye Moody. Draco regularly has his friends in stitches with his little asides, leveling crass insults and observations in carrying undertones, like he wants Harry to hear him. His essays are written with casual intelligence, drawing upon a variety of knowledge. Sometimes he gets downright cocky, throwing in wryly dark anecdotes about his (now imprisoned) father’s unwise dalliances with dubious dark magic, or a story about a Black family artefact that was all but sentient for how much it throbbed with decades of so-and-so’s hateful essence. Harry laughs aloud as he reads them, leaves little jokes and notes of praise in the margins, and tries not to stare too obviously when Draco dimples privately over his parchment on the days his class gets their grades back.

He finds every excuse to linger after class, clutching his books to his chest and asking Harry wide-eyed questions about his time at Hogwarts, and even the war. At first, Harry’s convinced he’ll be reading his own tales in the Prophet, but he soon learns that Draco’s genuinely interested. Over time, he starts sitting on Harry’s desk, robes riding up to reveal darling mary janes and lacy stockings. They’re the latest fashion, now that muggle-inspired clothing is making its way into a wizarding world euphoric over having survived a war, and they suit Draco well, lovely designs stark against his milky skin.

Sometimes Draco brings a gift--an apple, which surprised a laugh out of Harry and made Draco beam; a charmingly unsubtle treatise on gender in the wizarding world for the curious muggleborn; a bottle of the first wine Harry has ever enjoyed drinking. He’s being courted. It’s adorable, it’s insistent and amateurish, and Harry doesn’t know what to do about it. So he accepts the gifts, murmurs a thanks or a word of praise, and tries not to think too hard about the way Draco lights up each time. 

The first time a would-be bully tries to take advantage of their weekly DADA duels to cast a particularly nasty boil hex his way, Draco retaliates by calling out a spell Harry hasn’t thought of in years-- _langlock_ \--and then approaching the girl. He calls her an arch hypocrite, a piffler, and a jealous harpy. He methodically and systematically insults her family’s pedigree four entire generations back, confiscates her wand, and says that she’ll earn her tongue back when she learns how to address her betters. Insulting someone’s blood is pretty gauche these days, but it’s difficult not to find the promptness of Draco’s words darkly humorous. Draco’s Slytherin friends aren’t even trying to hide their amusement, tittering in that highborn way of theirs, ducking heads and smiling behind splayed hands. Harry exasperatedly takes the girl’s wand from (a suddenly very contrite) Draco, has one of his students take the girl to Madam Pomfrey, and then gives Draco detention with him for the rest of the month. Draco’s eyes light up. He can see some of Draco’s friends exchanging galleons.

The first day, Harry has him grade papers. 

“This is hardly a punishment, sir,” Draco tells him, pink lips curling up into a smile. He does so love correcting other people.

“You know you’re one of my best students, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco preens at the praise. 

“Which is why I am having you grade the work of my First Years… _without_ insulting them!” 

He deflates. Harry shouldn’t encourage it, but he snorts out a little laugh and tells him to get to work. Draco’s scent is broadcasting contented omega like a drug anyways, and they grade in comfortable silence for hours. Draco’s lovely hair looks burnished gold by the candlelight as he bends over his sack of parchment. 

“Your hair… why do you keep it short?” 

Draco surprises him by giving him a stricken look. “Do you not like it?” 

Harry waves a hand, desperate not to be on the receiving end of Draco’s legendary disappointment. “No, I do! I just thought… you know, all Purebloods are such sticklers about Omegas keeping it long.” 

Draco gives him a wry smile, and then stares back down at the essay he was grading. The parchment is a sea of red, with the occasional flash of its original script. Harry feels bad for the student who wrote it. “As you know, during the war, the Dark-- _Voldemort_ repurposed my family’s manor as his base of operations. I was excused from the worst of it, obviously, and spent most of my time in my room when I could. But when I absolutely couldn’t escape making an appearance, some of his followers would make… comments.”

Harry can’t contain the severe frown that takes over his face. “What sort of comments?” 

Draco purses his lips. “Uncomfortable ones. So, when it was all over, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to cut it. Mother was so upset with me that she burst into tears when she first saw it, but Father just said, ‘All the good Alphas prefer someone more modern these days.’ So I was allowed to keep it that way.” 

“It suits you.” Harry murmurs. 

He shouldn’t. But the urge to reach out is too strong, so he does, tucking a stray lock behind Draco’s ear. It reddens.

Another thought pops into Harry’s head. “Langlock. How do you know that?” 

Draco gives him a secretive smile. “My godfather invented it.”

Quietly, Harry says, “Your godfather saved my life. More than once. Did you know?” 

Draco reaches up and covers Harry’s hand with his own, eyes wide and earnest. He shakes his head no, and thanks Harry for telling him. Harry should move his hand away, but he realizes with a start that he hasn’t been touched with any measure of care or affection since the day Ron and Hermione hugged him goodbye on his way to Hogwarts, months and months ago. And there’s this--understanding, in the air, between the two of them. They’ve had many such moments, but this one feels the most important. 

It scares Harry. So the next day, he presents Draco with a broom, a mop, a duster, a thick brush, and some wood polish. 

“What,” Draco says, eyeing the array like it might hurt him, “is all this, sir?” 

“Muggle cleaning tools. You’re going to help me clean the classroom.” 

Draco’s jaw drops, a flush building on his cheeks. It’s the height of indignity for him, no doubt. House elf work. Harry remembers how soft his hands were. He would be surprised if Draco has ever seen a number of these things in his entire life. 

“Sir,” he begins, voice plaintive.

“I’ll show you how to use the tools,” Harry interrupts him, unable to remove the soothing rumble of his voice. 

“But, sir, I can’t _possibly_.” 

“And why not?” 

“It’s just not done,” He says, and then winces, like he recognizes how silly that sounds. 

Harry chuckles. “Yes, you’re very pampered, aren’t you?” 

“Exactly, Professor Potter!” Draco cries. And then he actually stamps his foot. “You’re supposed to--I’m supposed to be _taken care of_ \--I was happy grading papers.” 

“Then it wasn’t a proper punishment. And you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, actually,” Harry adds, picking up the broom and pressing it gently into Draco’s hands (his nails have been painted with a lovely dark green varnish, Harry notices), “besides, I’ll be right here with you.”

Draco huffs and pouts and looks about two degrees away from a truly spectacular tantrum, but he does listen. Harry could absolutely show him how to use any of these things with words alone. It’s not like he isn’t an expert, from his time with the Dursleys. He still uses Muggle methods of cleaning at Grimmauld Place. Cleaning clears his head, and if his aunt taught him anything useful, it was self-sufficiency. He can’t resist the opportunity to press himself along Draco’s back and guide those soft hands into the right position, squeezing briefly around the broom just once, imagining he’s guiding the boy into doing something else. 

After a few half-hearted attempts, Draco gets the sweeping motion just right. He shudders when Harry tucks his hair behind his ear and whispers out, “Good boy,” trailing his fingers down the smooth column of his neck. His skin is smooth and pale, and Harry can faintly feel his pulse rabbiting underneath his touch. He can see the soft place where Draco would take a claiming bite, high up, just near where his neck joins with the underside of his chin, and abruptly feels his mouth fill with saliva for how much he wants to sink his teeth in. Remembering that he’s a Professor, that Draco is young, that he trusts him, and is likely harboring a crush on a safe adult (a safe _Alpha_ , a traitorous voice reminds him with relish), he takes a step back. He can see Draco’s shoulders droop, smell the hint of distress seeping into his scent, and can’t resist briefly resting his hand high on his back and pushing him forward. 

He holds the dustpan for Draco, and then patiently shows him how to use the mop, which he hates. He casts an impervius charm on his hands before he cranks the wringer, and twists his nose at the murky water that falls into the bucket afterwards. They use a drying charm on the floor, and then when Harry explains how polishing the wood will work, Draco’s face all but glows red. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t want to get my robes dirty.” 

“Use a protective charm, Mr. Malfoy.” Harry says, exasperated.

“I’m pants at clothing charms,” Draco blurts, which is absolutely a lie (Flitwick, who had always been one of Harry’s favorite professors for his fairness, has bragged at length about Draco’s talent with charms), “and I’m not--I’m not wearing anything under my robes.” 

There’s a stubborn firmness to Draco’s jaw, and his shoulders are set, but Harry doesn’t miss the way he wrings his hands, the decorative rings he’s wearing glittering fetchingly in the low light of Harry’s office. So he had a plan, if a clumsy one, and he’s hoping Harry will be enough of a knothead to go along with it. Harry sighs, recognizing that he needs to put a pin in this. 

“Draco,” he says, gently. “I’m not stupid. You’re lovely, but I shouldn't have entertained this for as long as I have.”

There’s a vicious kind of giddiness on Draco’s face. “You noticed?” 

“Of course I did,” he begins, and then wants to kick himself when Draco preens, and sways closer to him, “but I’m too old for you. You have a lot ahead of you. I can’t steal your youth from you.” 

“You wouldn’t! You’re too good for that.” Draco protests, vehemently. 

“Did your mother put you up to this?” 

As Harry was hoping, this pointed question chips away at some of Draco’s insistence. He flushes, and leans back. 

“She didn’t-- _not_ put me up to this. But I’m seventeen! An adult! I know what I want.” 

Harry reaches out for him, and squeezes his shoulders. “No, you don’t. Listen to me, Draco. I don’t like to share. You’re young and beautiful and focused. I don’t care what your mother’s told you, you deserve to see the world and, er, dazzle them all.”

“I don’t _want_ to be shared.” Draco says, softly, like he missed everything else Harry said.

To Harry’s dismay, he can see tears filling the boy’s lovely gray eyes. His instincts are screaming at him to pull him close and comfort him. Harry cups his cheek, but then Draco tilts his head and determinedly pulls Harry’s thumb into his mouth. His pink lips purse prettily over Harry’s skin, his tongue swirling wet and warm.

“Draco, stop.” Harry says, cursing himself for the hoarseness of his voice.

“I know you like me, too. You have to,” Draco says, after he pulls off of Harry’s thumb, voice hitching dangerously.

He’s the picture of pouty hysteria, trying his best not to sniffle his way through this botched attempt at seduction he no doubt spent days planning, and Harry allows himself to blame the swell of affection in his chest for the way he groans in defeat and leans in to kiss him. They knock foreheads, and then Draco lets out a desperate gasp before he’s surging up to kiss him back, inexperienced but enthusiastic. 

“Shhhh,” Harry croons, using the hand he’s got on Draco’s jaw to tilt his head and bring him into a softer, gentler kiss, more a press of lips than anything.

He reaches up to wipe the tears from Draco’s face, which elicits a bashful fit of laughter that has Harry grinning despite himself. Then he tilts his head and presses his nose against Draco’s neck, where his scent is the strongest, taking a deep and greedy pull. Draco tilts his head back on a sigh, and when Harry kisses him there, delighting in the way he can feel the pulse rabbiting beneath, he winds his arms around Harry’s shoulders and presses himself close.

“Please don’t share me.” Draco whispers.

“You’re an absolute menace.” Harry sighs.

He leads Draco into his office, and after throwing a powerful locking charm at his door, coaxes him up onto his desk. He leans back on his hands like he belongs there, red-faced and giddy and visibly nervous, despite all the bravado, and when Harry pulls his chair closer to kiss him he lets out this decadent little noise and parts his thighs, clearly making space. This close, Harry can smell him, heady and sweet.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?” Harry asks, against his lips. 

Draco shakes his head, lips pulling into an affronted frown. “Of course not, sir!” 

“Please call me Harry.” 

“But I like calling you sir, Harry.” He says, a look of performative innocence on his face.

Harry rests his head against Draco’s collarbone with a groan. His cock had been pressing insistently against his trousers, but now it throbs with need. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Hopefully only the little death, sir.” Draco snickers. 

His voice is shaky--with excitement or fear or maybe both, which is endearing and a touch more arousing than it has any right to be--but also husky in a way that Harry’s never heard from him before. 

“You’re shaking,” Harry tells him, running his hands up his thighs in a soothing back and forth.

“I’m okay,” Draco protests, biting his lip.

“Can I touch you?” Harry asks. 

Draco just nods. His eyes flutter closed as Harry’s hands slide underneath his robes. He wasn’t kidding. Aside from those characteristic mary janes and frilly little socks, his skin is warm and bare. Harry skirts away from his crouch, chuckling at the restless twitch of his hips, and runs his hands up the slight curve of his hips and towards his chest, brushing his palms over his pebbled nipples. Draco presses into the touch with a sigh.

“I want--sorry, sir, I just--” He says, and then he’s scooting forward, wiggling off the desk before turning around and presenting the back of his robes to Harry. “Don’t you want to see all of me?”

Very aware that this is an act of bravery, Harry wordlessly reaches for the zipper of Draco’s robes and pulls down, revealing inch after inch of alabaster skin. He kisses the back of Draco’s neck, and follows his hand down with soft presses of his lips. They reach the end of the zipper, and then Harry holds the folds of the robe out so Draco can step out of them, all long-legged beauty. And though Harry wants to spend more time memorizing the scope of that beauty, he coaxes Draco forward, pressing his front onto Draco’s back. The boy all but melts into the desk, clearly delighted to take his weight. They stay this way for a while, Harry running a covetous hand up and down Draco's side, gentling him his scent and presence. After a moment, Draco squirms and says he's ready, arching his back and pressing the round globes of his arse against Harry's prominent erection.

He pulls away, which has the omega crying out in protest, and though his chest pangs in response, it's worth it. He drops to his knees, greedily taking in the sight before him. Placing one hand high between Draco's thighs, he applies a bit of pressure, and feels like he could burn up from desire when the boy widens his stance and exposes where his balls have drawn up tight to his skin. Harry leans in and presses a kiss there, immediately reaching out to cradle Draco's hips when he mewls and bucks forward. Then he leans up and kisses the place where thigh meets cheek, and then along the seam of his crack, where the barest hint of slick covers his skin. He dips his tongue out to taste, savoring the thickness of it.

"Hold yourself open for me." He says.

Draco shudders in response. He shifts forward until his chest is pressing into Harry's desk, absolutely covering his grading with his scent, Harry will have to duplicate those if he knows what's good for them. But then he's bringing his arms back, long fingers brushing over Harry's, before gripping his cheeks and exposing his pink, furled hole. Here, his scent is strongest, slick oozing lazily from the tight muscle.

"Gorgeous," Harry grinds out, surprising even himself with the weight of his voice.

He leans in, licking a strip from the seam of Draco's bullocks up to his rim, chasing his taste. The tight skin flutters against him, and Draco nearly loses his grip for the way he sways back into Harry's mouth, gasping out a garbled approximation of his name. Harry hums against him in reply, and then works his tongue in as deeply as he can manage, savoring the answering pulse. Draco darts one hand out to grab desperately at his hair, and it's a tight, painful grip, but when Harry reaches up to replace the missing hand with one of his own, he sobs out a weak, " _Sir_ ," and then he's clenching around Harry's tongue, hips rolling in Harry's hold. Harry slides a finger inside of him, meeting a little resistance and rolling through it, determined to take him apart. He crooks his finger up, searching, and hums in satisfaction when scoring his fingertip over Draco's sweet spot has him gasping into the desk.

"Please, more," Draco whines.

Harry obligingly slides another finger inside, and a rainfall of curses falls from his lips, which is more arousing than it has any right to be. He knew Draco had a filthy mouth, but not quite so filthy. Harry spreads his fingers, and a pained whimper follows. Hoping to soothe the burn of the stretch, Harry leans in and kisses where Draco's rim is stretched over his fingers. They find a comfortable rhythm, Harry's fingers fucking into Draco's tight heat, Harry's chin wet with him. Draco lets out a grateful sob when Harry tells him to touch himself. One day, Harry thinks, he'll lay Draco out on his back and watch him do it. He wants to see what Draco does to bring himself pleasure--wants to know how he likes his cock to be held, if he ever uses those slender fingers to fuck himself. Draco's deep groan pulls him from his thoughts, and he watches as Draco comes, painting his fingers and the edge of Harry's desk with his release, hole sucking his fingers in. Harry works him through it, and then gently pulls fingers out, popping them into his mouth.

"I want to see you," Draco says, shyly.

"Come here, darling." Harry commands, helping him up.

Draco flushes when he turns around with one of his hands covered in his own release. What Harry wants to do is lick his hand clean, but there's no use overwhelming him right now. He reaches into his pockets and lets a cleaning charm wash over Draco's hand, and then kisses the back of it, like he did all those weeks ago. Draco is goggling at him, but then he's beaming, looking all to the world like the cat that got the cream.

Harry leans in, giving him time to turn away, but there's a curious light in Draco's eyes as they kiss. He lets out a speculative hum against Harry's lips, which makes him chuckle. "Don't you taste good?"

Suffused with a sudden burst of bashfulness, Draco wraps his arms around Harry's neck, mumbling about impropriety. And then one hand is trailing curiously down Harry's front. Harry has taken to wearing muggle clothing while he teaches. It's simply easier to work with, especially with a discipline so physical as DADA.

"What an awful kind of clothing," Draco huffs, quickly becoming confused with Harry's belt, and then his fly.

Harry laughs freely. He shows Draco how make sense of it all, and before long, Draco is greedily pulling his pants down and freeing his cock. Harry lets out a sigh of relief at the release of pressure, and then Draco's curling one of those soft hands around his length and squeezing curiously. Harry twitches in his hold, which makes him exclaim softly and then pull him in one slow, torturous stroke. The bright fan of his lashes covers his eyes as he looks down between them, but when Harry covers his hand with one of his own, he glances back up at Harry with his pupils drawn wide.

Harry guides him, murmuring praise and instruction. He quickly loses his words, and muffles his moans into Draco's neck, kissing and licking restlessly over the sweaty skin. At this point, it won't take much. Just being held makes him feel like he could gnash his teeth, and Draco's clear enthusiasm and desire is a heady confidence booster. He comes with a grunt, covering Draco's hand once more. Echoing his earlier desire, Draco brings his hand up to his face and curiously licks over it, and it's Harry's turn to curse as his prick gives a valiant attempt at coming back to life.

Harry cleans them both up, comes up with a flimsy excuse to walk Draco back to the dungeons. Typically, a pass is enough to save a student that's being punished from more detention. But Draco is wobbly on his feet and starry eyed and happier than Harry has ever seen him, and there's a part of Harry that doesn't want to say goodnight, either, so he stands perhaps a little closer than is appropriate and marches Draco down to the dungeons, laughing and covering his ears when he shoots Harry a playful glare and says he's not sharing the password with Gryffindors, professor or not. And then he blows Harry a kiss before flitting through the door, red-faced.

From there, Draco seeks him out with bright-eyed persistence.

He's desirous and eager to please. Harry quickly learns that he's got a free period after their DADA class. That explains the talks, at least, and they _do_ still talk. There's a compatibility there that can't be denied. And, it's selfish, but it's been a while since Harry has been someone's unequivocal focus. Maybe it's the lack of experience, but Draco is open about his interest, and always happy to see him. There's more to life than being the twinkle in some young Omega's eye, but it soothes some of the instincts Harry has been burying since he learned anything about how wizards operate, overwhelmed at having yet another thing to learn about.

Some days, Draco is content to sink to his knees and suck Harry into his warm, wet mouth, brightening under Harry's praise as he holds that lovely hair and tells him what to do. The first time Draco looks up at him, squeezing his hips and urging him forward, it takes Harry all of three slow thrusts before he's barrelling into one of the hardest orgasms of his life. Harry fucks his face again, later, guiltily savoring the tears in those gray eyes, the bright pink of his lips swelling around Harry's cock. Some days, Harry bends him over the desk and fucks his thighs, pumping his cock in a deliberately slow counterpoint to his thrusts. Some days, Harry licks Draco until he’s frantic with it, and then he gives him one, two, three, four fingers, stretching him out. His fingers will have to be the substitute for the knot he craves, because they've barreled their way past tradition after tradition already, and there's a part of him that is still wants to give the boy a chance to change his mind.

Of course, Draco ruins every careful plan after they've spent hours exploring each other in Harry's office.

"You know, sir," he says, from where he's trying desperately to regain his breath, laid out like some divine gift on Harry's desk, "we could knot if we were bonded."

Harry lets out a huff of laughter. He runs a palm up Draco's thigh, soothing the ache that's no doubt set into them from being spread so wide. "Oh, yeah?"

Draco hums. "Mother would be delighted. Harry Potter? What a catch."

Harry sighs. "I can't help but feel like we've done this arse backwards."

"Is that you saying you'll actually want to bond with me?" Draco asks, sitting up.

He winces as he goes, complaining of a cramp, and Harry's only a little embarrassed at the soothing rumble that rises in his chest without his permission. They spend a few minutes rubbing at the cramp in his upper thigh. Draco's sweaty and pink and covered in his own come and slick, and a not insignificant amount of Harry's, but he still looks like a gift. There's no small amount of trust, there, either, in the way he lays himself bare for Harry with greedy enthusiasm, all to happy to monopolize his time and attention.

"I'd love to bond with you, Draco," Harry says, seriously.

It gets him one of those rare, shy smiles, the ones that pop out when Draco can't hide behind bravado. Harry knows what it's like, to wonder about your worth, and your place in other people's regard. He makes it a point to make sure the people he cares about don't have the same questions he did. He's amused to realize he can see the cogs turning in Draco's head, assembling some clever reply to hide that he's nearly full to bursting with joy.

"But!" Harry says, and Draco's smile immediately drops into a pout. "I would like you to think about if that's what you want. Seriously think about it."

Draco frowns at him. Rolls his eyes. Sighs. Squirms as Harry hits him with _scourgify_ after _scourgify_ , his hand flying out to grip Harry's wrist as he goes, because he has an unhealthy fascination with feeling Harry's magic on his skin. They get dressed in silence, and Harry sends him on his way with a kiss and a hall pass, trying not to think too hard about the firm set to Draco's jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new set of updates is coming soon! I keep hitting rough patches with writing, even the stuff that's supposed to be for fun. For anyone that's waiting for updates on this collection or my other fics, I promise I haven't abandoned them. I'm just a tired graduate student! I take my inspiration where I can find it.
> 
> Moving forward, I've decided I probably won't be doing any more Alpha!Draco fics unless it's requested. It's just not my thing. 
> 
> Anyways! Now that my apologetic ramble is out of the way, I hope you enjoyed this update. I appreciate the prompts I got! I’ll be posting fills soon and another short thingy of my own over the course of this week


	5. That Old Family Madness (Sirius/Draco)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Fill 2
> 
> _AAAH: i have a prompt, because i love this pairing and want to see more of it: in an AU where alpha!sirius lives, omega!draco befriends harry and sirius starts crushing hard on him. draco likes teasing him, and one day sirius snaps_

“Kreacher,” Malfoy is saying, in that irritatingly simpering tone of voice that means he’s Up To No Good, “would you mind putting this by Master Sirius’ bedside for me?” 

“Of course, Master Draco,” Kreacher replies, delighted as always to have Malfoy’s attention. 

Across the sitting room, Malfoy gives Sirius an evil little smile. Kreacher takes a neatly wrapped gift up the stairs, not even sparing Sirius a glance. 

“You awful little minx,” Sirius growls, “you absolute menace.” 

“You like it.” Malfoy says, tossing his head. 

He’s wearing a simple green scarf, but the action still exposes the lovely length of his neck, bare and just waiting for some Alpha’s teeth to push in. 

Sirius rolls his eyes. Malfoy sneers at him. It’s unfairly attractive.

These games started small. For whatever reason, Harry and Malfoy struck up an odd friendship after the post-war trials. Malfoy bullies him around and calls him names and is performatively unimpressed with him. It makes Harry laugh, though, and none of the people who love him have the heart to intervene, because they’d been convinced that Harry would never smile again, after the Battle of Hogwarts. So Malfoy pops into Grimmauld and charms Kreacher and silences mother’s portrait and feeds Harry and _drives Sirius insane_. 

He’d caught Sirius staring at him for far too long--he hadn’t meant to, really, but he has _eyes_ , and the little git really is gorgeous--and promptly began employing the worst of the ridiculous Pureblood seduction techniques. Malfoy’s all tight robes and arched back and tempting scent. Sometimes he sticks his head into Sirius’ closet and wears his shirts, leaving that scent behind. He’s not a bad cook, when he can avoid sending Kreacher into hysterics by trying to do housework, and he knows what it does to an alpha to make them food and then watch as they eat it and then smile like they’ve hung the sun. If Sirius didn’t know any better, he’d be convinced Narcissa put him up to it. As it is, he knows that Narcissa would rather eat dirt than let her son be around him for long, no matter how grateful she is to Harry.

Sirius is about to tell Malfoy to stuff it, but then Harry’s making his bleary eyed way downstairs, and the mean amusement on Malfoy’s face softens as he glances Harry’s way. “I see you’re still alive, Potter. Pity.”

Harry chuckles. “I know, right? Anyway, you ready?” 

Malfoy glances critically at his clothing, but then he nods and says, “You need a scarf. Come along, then!” 

And then he’s taking off his scarf and throwing it around Harry’s neck, fussing and tutting. Sirius tries and fails to act like he doesn’t wish Malfoy was putting the scarf on him. Harry waves goodbye as Malfoy drags him off to whatever function he’d arrived to collect him for. 

Sirius steels himself and makes his way back up to his room. Kreacher placed Malfoy’s gift neatly on Sirius’ bed. Sirius tears into the wrapping, and pauses as Malfoy’s familiar scent hits him, stronger than usual. He slowly pulls the giftbox’s lid off, and lets out a groan at the sight of lacy green knickers. It’s a slip of a garment, intricately made, and the smell of Malfoy is _loud_ on them. Sirius briefly considers an incindio duo, and then just as quickly realizes he’ll hate himself for it. Sirius breathes in deeply, folds the knickers with trembling fingers, and puts them back in the box. 

He doesn’t see Malfoy again for entire week. This happens, sometimes. Narcissa and Draco have been deeply entrenched in charity work, and they’re expected at events all over the isles, it feels like. 

It’s a normal enough day when Malfoy pops into their house. Sirius knows it’s him because few people are allowed to apparate in, and Malfoy always calls for Kreacher when he arrives. Sirius watches amusedly from the stairs as Malfoy asks Kreacher if he will iron his cloak (it’s perfectly fine, with not a crease on it), and if he can start a cuppa once he’s done, and how does he feel about helping to plan for redecorating? Kreacher’s in raptures by the time Malfoy releases him, shuffling away with expensive cloak in hand. Malfoy smiles up at Sirius in greeting, and Sirius' mind stutters over a sudden pang of longing. Fighting an answering tide of panic, Sirius leans on the railing and says, “Come to terrorize us again, my dear?” 

“Why, of course.” Malfoy replies, sauntering in like he owns the place. 

He looks darling in robes of periwinkle, all accented frills and intricate stitchings. Then he goes and ruins the illusion of the sweet little debutante by telling Sirius that he’s looking especially dreadful this morning, cousin, has he showered? Sirius realizes, with no small amount of horror, that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

After a quick shower, he trudges downstairs, and watches contentedly as Malfoy crosses one leg over the other and bends over a parchment with Kreacher. He’s taken to writing with Muggle pens, and the distracted click-click of it sounds an aimless tattoo as the two of them discuss wallpaper and carpets and light fixtures. Malfoy grins up at Sirius as he sits with them. (As Sirius was expecting, some of the happiness drains from the folds of Kreacher’s face.)

“At least ask Harry which colors he’d like.” Sirius sighs.

“I know what colors he likes,” Malfoy says with a dismissive wave, “Is he still asleep?”

“Dead to the world.” Sirius confirms, smiling apologetically. It happens sometimes.

Malfoy’s face softens. “Give him time.”

Sirius watches Malfoy and Kreacher work for a good few hours. Sometimes Malfoy hops up to pace around, or he flits into the kitchen and returns to unthinkingly offer Sirius a plate of cut fruit or a simply made sandwich, waving away Kreacher’s protests. He’s got piano fingers, Sirius thinks. He’s probably got a nice figure under all of those robes. Malfoy complains loudly about the stuffiness of the place, and even though Kreacher at once pops to his feet to open windows and draw curtains and blast airing charms, he undoes the top few buttons of his decorative robes, and rolls his sleeves up. Malfoy begs off of their work, telling Kreacher that he’d like a break. The house elf bows low, and then apparates to who knows where with a snap of his spindly fingers, and they’re alone. 

Sirius is surprised to see that Malfoy’s Dark Mark has been covered with an extensive muggle tattoo of a familiar bright red nebula. It looks like a heart, at certain angles. In oher angles, the faded visage of that skull peeks out from the darkness. 

Catching Sirius’ gaze, Malfoy gives him a tight smile. “The Heart nebula. Do you know of it? It’s in the constellation--” 

“Cassiopeia, yes.” Sirius says. 

He reaches out, draws one finger along the ink. It’s old enough that the skin is not especially sensitive to the touch, but fresh enough that its bright colors are stark against alabaster skin. It’s lovely. 

“You know, you nearly knocked me off my feet with that little gift of yours.” Sirius says.

He glances up at Malfoy. His bright gray eyes are alight with amusement and determination, and the twist of his lips is wry. 

“Did you like it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was the message clear enough, or shall I write you some instructions? My mother had me convinced you were quite the libertine. I thought this would be easy!” 

Sirius lets out a bright laugh. “A ‘libertine’! Purebloods.”

Malfoy is laughing with him. Then he leans in, and they’re sharing air for all of a few moments before Sirius thinks, fuck it all, and captures those supple lips with his own. It's quite possible that Harry will want to kill him. Molly will probably cry. He doesn't even want to think about what Narcissa might do. It doesn't matter. Malfoy's pressing his front to Sirius' like he'd like for them to melt into each other, warm and slender.

"If you try to knot me on this table, I will vanish your hair." Malfoy whispers against his mouth.

Sirius' cock throbs. He clasps one hand on his shoulder and then pulls on his magic, and they land in his bed upstairs with Malfoy sputtering and Sirius cackling into the air. Malfoy huffs, and slams his hand down on Sirius chest. Sirius checks any further ire by drawing him close for a slow kiss, enjoying the surprising plush of those lips, and the way he's never quite content to just let Sirius lead, nipping and biting and sighing into the space between them. They part, and Malfoy trails kisses along the underside of his jaw, unabashedly breathing him in. He lets out a purr, and it's such a sound. It's something Sirius remembers pulling out of the cute Omegas at school, snogging in alcoves and empty classrooms, nearly intoxicated from the scent of them. But this is new. Draco Malfoy is nothing like those Omegas. He's proper, to be sure, but he's ill-tempered and blunt and darkly humorous, and not to be impressed by anyone or anything. Sirius reaches for his wand, tucked into his back pocket, and vanishes their clothes, enjoying Malfoy's squawk of surprise. Sirius reaches down to squeeze the arse he's been admiring for some time now, and it's like all the fight leaves Malfoy as he leans in to nibble restlessly at Sirius' collarbone.

They roll around on the bed for a bit, content to grind and grope and explore, and Malfoy pulls away only to reach for his robes and draw out his wand, throwing up silencing charm after silencing charm, muttering about how Harry won't let him hear the end of it if he wakes up to this particular kind of noise.

"Does that mean you're loud, Malfoy?" Sirius asks.

Malfoy narrows those glinting eyes at him, a teasing smirk on his face. "Only if you can make me loud, Black."

Sirius considers himself a fairly thorough lover, but he's impatient and it's been a while and he feels alive, so he pulls the Omega onto his back and cups the back of his thighs, enjoying the rolling shudder that runs through his lithe form. Malfoy's wet enough for him--Sirius can smell it--but he mutters a quick incantation anyways, slicking his fingers. He slides two inside, easy as anything, curling them up. Once he finds what he was searching for, Draco covers his face with his hands and muffles a curse behind his hands. It's a sweet sight, and a fascinating counterbalance to the way his body accepts Sirius, clenching and warm. Sirius works him over with quick, impatient thrusts, and then Malfoy's reaching out for him, fingers tight on his shoulders.

"Touch yourself, sweetheart," Sirius rumbles.

He grips his cock and lines up, and Malfoy's eyes flutter closed as he slides in, a decadent groan falling from his lips. One hand finds its way to his chest, twisting a pretty pink nipple, and the other slides between them to take himself in hand, stroking short and sweet as Sirius bottoms out. Malfoy gives a languid stretch and then he's throwing those long, long legs over Sirius' shoulders. Sirius rolls his hips into a slow, insistent grind, resisting the urge to just rut with little care for his own pleasure, because he'd love to have Malfoy in his bed again, loud mouth and all. The loud mouth in question falls open on a low moan of his name.

"Don't stop," Malfoy whimpers, and then bites his bottom lip, falling completely silent for a few minutes as Sirius finally pulls out and presses in deep.

He starts a heavy, rocking rhythm. It's on one especially deep thrust that punches a sound out of Malfoy's chest, a low keening cry, and Sirius can't resist leaning in to swallow the noise with a biting kiss. Malfoy's prick is slick with precome between them, noise dirtily slick as he tugs at himself, thighs trembling each time Sirius pulls out and bucks deep, chasing the tightening feeling at the base of his shaft.

"Good?" Sirius asks.

Malfoy's nodding before he can even finish speaking, which pulls a strained laugh from his mouth. They kiss again, more a tangle of lips and teeth than anything. Sirius shifts, widening his knees, gritting his teeth. It gives him just enough purchase to really get deep, and the pitch of Malfoy's moans tightens in response.

"Just there, please, don't stop," He's muttering, and then he completely destroys Sirius' composure by following it up with a low, "thank you."

Sirius slams in, burying himself deep, and now that he's gotten a taste of what it feels like to let go, he follows up with quick, shallow thrusts, his brief worry gratified by the keening noise that tumbles from Malfoy's kiss-swollen lips. As he goes, it gets harder and harder to pull out, his knot pulsing forth with an almost painful burst of pleasure. He tugs Malfoy's rim one, twice, three times, and then with a delicious squirm and a squeeze of those shaking thighs, Malfoy is coming, twisting over the head of his cock as it spurts between them. He's still clenching rhythmically when Sirius pushes his knot in, and that's it, Sirius is coming and coming and coming, for what feels like ages but is probably just a few intense seconds, his forehead pressed against Malfoy's.

After a moment, Malfoy leans up to peck Sirius on the lips, and then bursts into a round of soft laughter. "We were so stupid to do this face to face."

Sirius grins. "You mean you don't want to admire my handsome visage for the next half hour?"

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything contrary. Sirius helps him lower his legs, which promptly wrap around his waist. After they exchange cleaning charms, he squeezes Sirius' shoulders with an open appreciation that has him preening, the tiniest bit.

Then, a series of knocks sounds on the door. "Er, Sirius?" Harry calls.

Malfoy tenses beneath him. Sirius has to hide his groan at what it does to his knot with a loud, fake cough. "Yeah, Harry?"

"Remember how you told me silencing charms can wear off when your magic goes all haywire?"

Sirius chokes out a weak laugh. Malfoy covers his face.

"Well... just be good to my friend. Bye, you two."

The familiar crack of apparition follows. Malfoy smacks him upside the head, as if he weren't the one to cast the charms in the first place. Sirius saves himself an avalanche of complaints by stealing another kiss. There were certainly worse ways to approach that particular conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally not a pairing I've ever thought of before, wow. This was fun! Thanks for the prompt!


	6. Trying (Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Fill 3  
>  _Billowyblue: I've always wanted to see Omega Draco trying for a baby and being kind of stressed out by it. Of course there will be a caring Harry and many, many smuts!_
> 
> This one's a heat fic, folks. It's the usual.

It's not as though he hasn't been thinking about it for a while, but when Hermione and Ron bring their daughter over for a visit, Draco is reminded of the question that's been lingering in the back of his mind. They're very picture of tired, young parents, flush-faced and dressed as casually as possible. Hermione's riotous curls are wrangled into a bun that has Draco wincing in sympathy, because that's bound to result in more than a few knots. Still, she smiles widely at him when he asks to hold Rose, and all of a sudden the biggest emotion Draco feels is envy.

It's replaced by no small amount of guilt, and then all negativity is washed away completely when Hermione gently guides him into holding little Rose.

Harry rests his chin on Draco's shoulder, hand resting low on his waist. Then he laughs, the sound rumbling against Draco's back, and says, "She looks like a sleepy tomato."

Hermione laughs, and Ron lets out affronted noises, and though Draco privately agrees, he also thinks that, "She's just perfect."

Harry kisses his cheek. The four of them spend a few quiet moments cooing over red-faced, infant perfection. Baby Rose, who is sleeping peacefully and according to her parents spends most of her time that way, is passed around from person to person, her soothing baby scent mingling with that of their little mismatched family. For the longest time, it'd been just Draco and his parents, which suited him just fine. Family is extremely important to Purebloods. But he'll always be grateful for Harry gently but insistently bringing him into the lives of so many kind hearted people.

He spends the next few days in a state of pensive contemplation. Harry picks up on it right away and does his best to accommodate. He brings Draco tea, just the way he likes it, absently massages his shoulders when he has the time, coaxes laughter out of him with amusing anecdotes from work. He's as tender as ever when they make love, generous and encouraging in the way that always makes Draco's face glow with how much he likes it, despite the vague embarrassment it elicits. He's much different from the Alphas Draco had been raised to marry. Maybe it's because he hadn't even realized he was an Alpha, or that he had magic, or anything about his fame until he'd been unceremoniously dumped into the wizarding world. Maybe it's because he's always been stubbornly devoted to breaking every rule that counts. Draco will never know, but he's always grateful that he's not expected to languish away in their home in genteel boredom until the time came for making an heir. Draco doesn't want an heir. He just wants a family.

Sometimes, Ron and Hermione pop by, slowly recovering from this change to their lives. Hermione has taken to finding Draco and unceremoniously popping Rose into his arms. Draco doesn't have the heart to refuse her. Rose is a pretty little thing, and the smell at the crown of her head is ambrosial. Draco murmurs nursery rhymes to her in French and bustles around the house, needing some way to work off the burst of energy he gets from having her near.

"Draco's going to make an great mum someday, mate," He hears Ron tell Harry and Hermione, once.

They're in the dining room sharing a glass of firewhiskey, as they do now that they feel less guilty about it.

Hermione hums her agreement. "He's just wonderful with her, Harry. If we ever need someone to watch Rosie when Molly's not around, be prepared for us to come knocking at your door."

Draco can feel his ears heating up. He'd taken Rose into the kitchen to help him "oversee the stirring of the curry," which was largely just an excuse to hold her, especially because it's Harry who does most of their cooking. Draco could quite possibly burn water. Harry regulates him to simple kitchen tasks in an effort to keep Potter Cottage from burning down once again.

Feeling Harry's gaze on him, Draco glances over his shoulder. Harry's giving him a warm smile. He looks roguishly handsome in the low lighting, the green of his eyes alight with something Draco can't name. Draco gives him a wobbly smile, and turns away before he says something silly.

* * *

Sometimes they talk before bed. It's a holdover from a tradition they started in the early days of their relationship, when both of their nightmares were too heavy for them to stay asleep.

Tonight, Harry reaches out and squeezes Draco's shoulder. Then he asks, "Do you want a baby?"

Draco pinches him. Harry lets out a yelp, and then laughs as he rubs at his shoulder. "You have no tact."

Harry raises a brow at him. Draco nods. Harry gives him a big, beaming smile--the kind that makes him feel like there are pixies turning pirouettes in his stomach.

"I want that, too. I want to give you a baby very much." Harry says, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"I was worried," Draco confesses. "We're young."

"And?"

That simple word lifts something heavy from Draco's shoulders.

* * *

"You'll have to be patient with Draco now that he's off his potions, Mr. Potter," Healer Shafiq is saying, as they're preparing to leave, "preparing for a heat can be difficult, especially without hormonal regulation."

Harry's nodding earnestly along with her, his hand tight around Draco's.

"If it doesn't work this first time, please don't be frustrated with him. The omega body can be a fickle thing!" She continues, and the way she's wagging her fingers has Draco deeply amused. She's an old Beta witch who has been serving other Purebloods in her private practice for decades. She is used to arguing with Alphas impatient for heirs.

She'd been the one to talk him through suppressing after his first heat, tutting about how Purebloods were coming into themselves later and later because of their families' pressures. That'd been right before sixth year. Draco remembers laughing hysterically in her face, which she thankfully chalked up to the hormone cocktail of his body aggressively reminding him he was ready to carry. Very few Pureblood Omegas could say their parents were asking them to use their wands to kill instead of chase down children and run an estate, but then again, old Riddle hadn't been a very reasonable man.

"I think we'll be okay, Healer Shafiq. Harry treats me very well." He tells her, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his amusement at the way Harry puffs up at the vote of confidence.

She pats him on the knee, still giving Harry an arch look with those deep almond shaped eyes of hers. She couldn't care less about his fame. Harry confessed to liking her immediately, for that.

She sends them off with a stack of hokey pamphlets about heats and fertility and family planning. Draco has had much of the information in these pamphlets drilled into him over embarrassing late nights with mother and giggly talks with Pansy, so he gently hands them to Harry, who takes to reading them with his usual single-minded determination. If Harry hunts him down with pamphlets in hand to excitedly share some random factoid or another, Draco indulges him, if only to bask in his excitement.

* * *

Draco takes an indefinite leave from fieldwork at his job. Curse breaking is challenging and fulfilling work, but it can be dangerous. Luckily, Draco is good at his job, so he accepts his employer's offer to serve as a consultant, and spends hours in his office pouring over reports when Harry is away.

Draco doesn't feel very different, the first week, but Harry quickly points out that his scent is stronger. He's a terrible and welcome distraction, finding every excuse to pop in, knowing that if Draco really didn't want him there he'd be firmly and summarily banished, with a locking charm erected on the door for good measure.

"Do you like how I smell?" Draco asks, one such morning, as Harry looms behind his chair for a goodbye kiss. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear it anyway.

Harry groans softly, dropping his head into the crook of Draco's neck. "I love it. How am I supposed to work, knowing you're here, smelling like that?"

"You'll figure it out, you brute."

Harry proves that he wasn't listening by saying, "Can I touch you?"

Draco should say no. Head Auror Robards has been especially hard on Harry, like he wants him to prove that he's more than some loudmouthed upstart. Harry often works long, odd hours as a trainee. Robards had apparently been none too pleased to learn they were starting a family. It wouldn't do to push his patience further by making Harry late.

"Where?" Draco asks.

"Anywhere," Harry says, capturing his lips in another kiss.

He cups the bottom of Draco's chin for better access, and then that hand is stroking along his jaw and below. He cups Draco's neck with a low rumble, and the answering sound that rises in Draco's throat is an embarrassingly throaty keen. With a bitten off curse, Harry pulls the desk chair back, and then unceremoniously falls to his knees before him. Draco lets out a high laugh, and then begins unbuttoning his shirt, deliberately slow.

"Let me," Harry says, big warm hands covering his.

He shuffles forward, forcing Draco's legs wide, taking up space. It's such a dumb thing to be aroused by, but it makes a soft noise rise in his chest anyway, which Harry meets with an inquisitive hum. Then he's undoing Draco's buttons, leaning in and pressing tingling kisses with each inch of flesh that's exposed. When his shirt is completely unbuttoned, Harry runs a warm palm over one of Draco's nipples, sending a white hot frisson of sensation dancing through his body. The loud moan that bursts from his throat temporarily shocks them both into silence.

"Sensitive, baby?" Harry asks, and he's got that gleam in his eyes that means he's found something to fixate on.

"Apparently," Draco mumbles, unable to tell if the heat in his cheeks is from embarrassment or anticipation.

Harry pinches his left nipple, and it's like the bloody thing is on a live wire straight to his cock. The sensation borders on pain, but it's a pleasant kind of soreness. When Harry leans in and gets his mouth on him, Draco feels his body roll through a shudder. Harry's blunt little teeth nip at him, and his hand grinds firmly into the erection at the seat of his trousers.

That is all it takes for him to fall apart. He reaches out and grasps Harry's broad shoulders for support, toes curling as his hips buck restlessly. The sensation of coming in his briefs is unbearably messy, coupled with his growing wetness, and Harry gasps out a little _Oh_ as he works him through it, leaning up to kiss his sweaty forehead.

"Yes, love, that's it, come for me," Harry is saying, voice low and rumbling like he's the one who's just come for nothing.

Bashful, Draco burrows his face into Harry's collarbone. Harry presses his hand down, where Draco's still hard and twitching, and he bucks up into the movement with a whine. Harry laughingly coaxes him out of hiding, and then they work together to unbuckle his trousers. The moment his pants come down, Harry is letting out an appreciative groan. Without preamble, he's spreading Draco's thighs as widely as his chair allows, taking him in with greedy eyes. Draco can't resist the petty little urge to kick at him, but Harry catches his ankle with a casual strength, which makes another stupid whine fall from his lips.

"You're terrible!" Draco says, suddenly overcome with this frantic mix of affection and embarrassment and deep arousal.

"Sure." Harry says, clearly not listening.

"I hate you." Draco says, as Harry pulls him closer by the ankle, just a bit, enough that his bum is hovering at the edge of the chair. "I hate you, I hate you."

"I love you, too," Harry says.

He kisses Draco's slick inner thighs, and then licks away what's left of Draco's release, very deliberately ignoring where Draco's prick is bobbing an angry red before him. Then he pauses, dips his nose into the light blond curls at the base of his shaft, and breathes in. Draco covers his face with his hands, skin tingling with warmth. Some deep, instinctual thing in the back of his mind is filling him with smugness. His Alpha likes his scent. He's seeking out the places where it's strongest and taking him in, humming contentedly into Draco's skin. He's so busy battling with his thoughts that he doesn't have time to process Harry sucking him into his mouth, all wet, rippling heat.

"Harry," he whimpers, squirming.

Harry's free hand had been on his hip, rubbing circles into the skin there, but now he uses it to press into his thigh, locking him in place. When Draco peeks between his fingers, he can see Harry's bright eyes staring intently back up at him. He's lost his glasses, somehow. Draco runs his hands through Harry's dark curls, scratching at Harry's scalp as he bobs his head, tongue dragging along his length. He comes embarrassingly fast. Harry swallows it all, and sucks insistently at Draco's tip until he has to push him off. Harry rubs his stomach as he comes down from the high, his eyes heavy. He recognizes the familiar ticklish feeling of Harry's stupidly powerful cleaning charm rolling over him, and then Harry's shuffling around before he coaxes Draco out of his shirt and into a silky robe--he must have transfigured it.

"You," Harry says, lifting him up into his arms, "Need a nap."

Draco wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders. "Don't you want me?"

"Always," Harry says, the readiness of his answer erasing the tiny bolt of insecurity that'd been trying to take root in his chest. "but I'm definitely late."

(Later, Harry tells him Auror Robards gave him a dressing down in front of his entire cohort. Draco only feels a little bit of regret.)

* * *

"What do you want for dinner?" Harry asks, when they're three hours into a marathon of the most nonsensical films Draco has ever seen, the Lord of the Rings. Muggle ideas of magic and magical races are always just left of accurate.

Without thinking, Draco says, "Can we order from the Chinese restaurant you like?"

It takes him a while to notice that Harry has stopped stroking his hair. Draco always uses him as a living heat source on their TV days. Harry knows his duties well. He is not to move, and he is obligated to provide the maximum amount of affection. He lets out an affronted little noise and tilts his head up, resting his chin on Harry's chest, to see him better.

"You hate that place, Draco." Harry says, brows furrowing.

"Did I say that?" Draco asks, genuinely confused.

"Yes! Loudly and consistently! It's why I stopped ordering from there. I know you hate the smell."

"All I can think about is that chicken in the sweet sauce. And the fried rice. I want so much of the rice." Draco confesses.

Harry laughs, and then leans up with a groan of exertion. He pinches Draco on the side for grumbling, but easily accepts him into his lap. "Accio cellphone," Harry says, calling forth his most useful Muggle contraption. These newest ones have very few buttons and respond to touch alone, and Draco is fascinated by watching Harry work with it. Harry laughs and walks him through the whole thing step by step, and turns the speaker on as he orders for them.

Draco grew up eating catered meals. The elves of the Manor knew his favorites and worked diligently to accommodate them. The same could be said of Hogwarts' elves. He's known the finest cuisine. None of it compares to the rice he gleefully drowns in soy sauce, or the chicken that's just this side of stretchy from the sweet and sour sauce. Harry watches him the entire time they eat, brows climbing further and further up his forehead. 

The rest of the week follows much of the same. They eat so much Chinese food that Harry eventually begs off. Then Harry starts bringing him a variety of foods.

"You need protein," Harry keeps saying.

Draco doesn't know how to explain to him that he doesn't understand how that makes any sense at all, but the food is sinfully good anyway. He's hungrier than he's ever been in his life. He gets crumbs on his work parchments. He almost ruins his tentative friendship with Ron when he casually reaches for one of Draco's chips during one of their get togethers. He's discovered the magic of maltesers, for all that the texture of them makes his skin crawl. When Harry can't make it to the Three Broomsticks in time to buy him a pack of gillywater, he's briefly afraid that he might burst into tears. Harry, because he's stupidly kind, rolls with the punches, starts making a list of food to look for when he's out, and doles out sweet kisses.

"Imagine how your cravings are going to be when you're pregnant," Harry tells him, once, face brightening at the idea of it.

It sends a similar warmth rolling through Draco, and they just smile at each other for a bit, probably giddier over the whole affair than is warranted. Still, the anticipation eases some of the frustration of his body rebelling against all sense.

* * *

There are little changes. Draco's horrified by the newfound softness in his hips, thighs, and tummy. Harry's delighted by it all, which doesn't quite make it okay, but does help. It's not like he won't be growing more soon, anyway. His sensitive nipples are a good sign, Healer Shafiq says--means he may be able to breastfeed. Harry keeps him in bed for the rest of the day after that little revelation.

But Draco just feels more alert, more aware of the world around him. Every time Hermione comes by with Rose, the smell at the crown of her head always makes him weirdly emotional. The texture of their carpeted bedroom floor feels ugly on his sensitive skin; it takes only one absentminded complaint about that for Harry to rip the damn thing up, with Weasley exasperatedly helping him install a newer, softer one. Sometimes he's cold enough that the only thing that helps is Harry's embrace. Sometimes he's so hot he'd like to jump out of his skin. Harry doles out bear hugs and blasts the tower fan he bought from the supermarket by turns, waving Draco away when he starts sneezing over changing his body temperature so harshly.

"You understand that you're stuck with me, right?" Draco tells him. "You're perfect."

"Do you mean it?" Harry smiles that shy little smile at him, the crooked one that always pops up when Draco's said something that makes him happy.

"Don't question me," Draco says, airily.

* * *

Draco doesn't realize that his heat is upon him until he tries to stand up and spares a moment to wonder if he's accidentally apparated, what with the world spinning like that.

Then a familiar, rolling cramp sets low in his belly, and Draco sits right back down. He gives himself fifteen minutes to panic in tense silence before he decides to busy himself. Harry left for the Ministry in a smiley hurry, excited for the chance to observe Aurors in the field for low level cases. In between excitedly telling him all the details, he'd summoned his notepad and asked Draco if he needed anything, and Draco just asked had asked for the components for homemade quesadillas, too embarrassed to admit that he just wanted to eat the cheese out of the bag, like some slovenly cave troll. If he tried to reach out, Harry would likely drop everything to be here, but the thought of it fills him with guilt.

Draco gingerly works his way out of bed and makes for the kitchen. He heats up leftover lasagna with a warming charm, still too intimidated by the microwave to even attempt it in his state. He downs several cups of water that don't feel like enough. Then he cleans up after himself and takes a cold shower in their bedroom's en suite, hoping to still the prickling heat building there. It helps a bit, but then trying to use a towel is an ordeal because it feels too rough on his skin. He tries to use a drying charm, but his magic abruptly decides not to listen to him, and sends the medicine cabinet blasting open hard enough that the glass mirror breaks. Draco stares at it in muted horror, his eyes stinging.

He grits his teeth and endures the towel's assault until he's suitably dry, then haphazardly throws it over the light green shards littered by the sink. He raids Harry's side of the closet, and spends an embarrassingly long amount of time just rubbing his face into shirts and breathing in Harry's familiar musk. He settles on a heavy flannel and silk underwear. Then he starts taking Harry's shirts down one by one and dragging them to the bed. He arranges them into some weak approximation of a nest, wraps one shirt around his head, and falls into a restless doze. When he awakens, all it takes is one restless shift for him to feel that he has absolutely soaked his way through some of his most expensive underwear.

They keep toys in the bedroom bench, but crawling to the foot of the bed to get some feels like too much work. He shucks his underwear, rolls onto his stomach, and reaches up for a pillow. He folds it and slides it between his thighs, and the friction of getting it into place is just enough to have him whining and shooting weakly onto it. For just a moment, the restless need he's feeling quiets, and then it surges right back up with a vengeance. He ruts happily against the pillow until the fog in his head clears two more orgasms later. He's still too afraid to try his magic, so with a shudder of embarrassment he throws it on the floor.

The thought of doing something like that again is abruptly the worst thing ever, and there's this creeping loneliness that's making his throat feel tellingly thick, and that just won't do. So he marches to the fireplace in the living room, reaches for powder, and sticks his head through. He's allowed to reach the office assistant because of his listing as one of Harry's emergency contacts. (With a pleased little hum, Draco remembers how unthinkingly Harry had penciled him in as they curiously pored over his application together.) The assistant, whose name Draco forgot on purpose, is a mousy little omega with eyes too big for his face and a terrible flirting habit. Draco has never liked him and does not like watching Harry interact with him at Ministry events.

"Hello," Draco begins, proud of himself for keeping his voice so steady, "is Harry in?"

"Why?" The blasted creature has the audacity to ask.

Feeling especially petty, Draco says, "Because we're trying for a baby. Did you know? I hear gossip travels fast in the Ministry. In case you haven't heard, Harry and I are trying for a baby. I am in heat and I'd like him to come home and get me pregnant. Possibly on multiple surfaces. Would you like me to be more detailed?"

This earns him an appropriately gobsmacked look. They sit in silence for a good few moments before the other omega stands from his desk and scurries off. When he comes back, though, Draco is surprised to see Harry with him, looking frazzled and stately in his bright red robes.

"Draco, baby, are you okay?" He kneels in front of the floo.

"I will be when you come home, Scarhead."

Harry laughs, and his shoulders slump with relief. "I've got your shopping in stasis. I'll go get it, sign out, and then I'm all yours."

Something about the simplicity of that statement is striking. Draco watches him leave, his chest aching. Then the office assistant breaks him out of his thoughts by giving him a shaky congratulations. Draco makes sure he can see how hard his eyes roll before he cuts off the connection. A few minutes later, he can hear Harry popping into the kitchen. He finds Draco still by the fireplace, who jumps up to hug him, breathing him in. Harry kisses him in greeting, a long, languid thing, tongue exploring his mouth. When they part, Harry kisses his jaw, and then down his neck, pausing to nip over his bond mark, and then down to his collarbones. He lets out a happy purr when Draco scratches his scalp, fascinated as ever by the surprising softness of his messy curls.

"Mmm, you smell amazing," He says.

"So do you," Draco says, too desperate to keep playing at irritation.

Harry is impatient enough to vanish his robes away without even reaching for his wand, which makes Draco sigh in appreciation. He gets to feel Harry's familiar magic enveloping him again as he apparates them straight onto their bed.

"I broke the mirror. I'm sorry," Draco babbles, as Harry gently maneuvers him onto his stomach.

"What?" Harry laughs, running covetous hands up and down his sides.

"The towel was too much, so I tried to use magic and I bullocksed it up. Please be careful in the washroom."

"It's fine. This is a pretty nest," Harry adds, apropos of nothing.

Draco gasps. "It's horrible, Harry."

"No, it's nice. I like that you wanted my scent on you."

Harry silences any further protests by appreciatively cupping his cheeks and spreading them. The moment his warm breath hits Draco's hole, he melts. Harry's tongue drags warm and dirty over from his tight balls to his tailbone, and then his plush lips are closing over him as he sucks. Draco whines his approval into the air, swaying eagerly into the feeling. The world is reduced into a haze of sensation, and then Harry dips his tongue into Draco's hole. Unable to stand it, Draco wiggles a hand under his belly and grips his cock, tugging himself in quick, practiced movements. He spurts over his hand, and it feels amazing, but it's still not enough, especially with Harry there.

"I need you." Draco says.

"Hm?" Harry asks, smoothing a hand over his back. "I didn't hear you."

"I need you," Draco repeats, louder this time.

"I'm right here," Harry chuckles, hands warm and heavy on Draco's hips.

Draco's trembling with need. Harry coaxes him up onto his knees, steadying him when he sways too harshly, tugging gently. He summons one of his ridiculously plush pillows (Draco has a frantic moment to be thankful it wasn't one of Harry's pillows that he soiled in his desperation) and tells Draco to hold onto, and then after asking if he's ready, presses the tip of his cock against Draco's rim and pushes in.

"Harry," Draco sighs, more for the pleasure of saying his name than anything. Harry just answers him with a low rumble.

He's wet and ready, but Harry is as thick as he is long, and the stretch lingers just this side of painful. He loves that stretch, always has, and in this moment it soothes that ache of _lack_ that had him so jittery. Harry leans down, pressing his front along Draco's back, his breath ghosting over the sensitive curve of his ear.

"I'm gonna give you a baby, love. Is that what you want?"

"Mm-hmm," Draco hums, his eyes fluttering closed.

When Harry's all the way in, hips pressed against the seat of his arse, he can feel the roundness of what will be his knot. They've tied together before, but Draco has never been in heat for it, and he wasn't anticipating the throng of want that catches in his throat.

Harry kisses the corner of his mouth and begins moving, short little thrusts that are more grinding than anything, but his thick length is dragging insistently over Draco's prostate, punching deep, throaty moans from his chest. It isn't long before Draco's squirming underneath him, pushing back to meet him thrust for thrust. Harry keeps pressing kisses on the sensitive spot behind his ear, murmuring words of encouragement into his skin. One hand slides up and twists the hardened nub of his nipple, and then he's coming again, feeling himself clenching fiercely around Harry's length.

Harry pulls out of him with a restless growl, and Draco barely has time to voice a complaint before two thick fingers slide into his hole, searching and prodding, and then scoring insistently over his prostate. It's difficult to tell if he comes again or if he's still coming, but he sobs into the air, bucking restlessly, at once trying to escape and seek more. Harry keeps him in place with a hand on his hip and makes him take it until he has to push him away. He all but deflates onto his front, too dazed to care about the growing wet spot beneath him.

He rolls onto his side, reaching out. Harry takes his place behind him, propping Draco's head up on his arm. He kisses the top of his head. Draco tilts his head back to meet him, and they kiss messily for a few lovely moments. 

"Doing okay?" Harry asks.

Draco nods in affirmation. Harry slots his teeth over Draco's faded bond mark as he lifts Draco's top leg over his strong thigh. Then he's pressing one of Draco's cheeks to the side and sliding back into him, starting up the hard fucking that Draco has been craving, filling him up so well. Each heavy, insistent thrust chips away at every worry, every bit of loneliness that was building, every empty ache. Harry's teeth sink into his flesh, renewing his bite in a burst of pleasure pain. By the time his ears stop ringing, he can hear Harry's grunts of exertion in his ear, and it's that that pushes him over the edge again--knowing the effect he's having on his Alpha.

"Fill me up, Harry." He cries out, his words trailing off into an aimless keen as Harry hisses and his rhythm stutters, his knot pressing against Draco's entrance with each pull.

Harry lets out a low, deep moan as he finally works his knot in, and then he's emptying himself into Draco's channel, his hand tight where it's holding his thigh up. The stretch is intense, but it's so right, that's how they're meant to be, he's sure of it. Draco climaxes with a whimper. It's a dry, intense flush of feeling, his toes curling and his cock twitching helplessly.

They catch their breath in an easy silence. Harry arranges them into a comfortable enough position, half on their backs and half on their sides, Draco throwing his head back to rest on Harry's chest. Every now and then, Harry grunts and rocks against him, filling him with more come. It's the most he's ever done this when they're tied, but heats are different.

"Do you think it took?" Draco asks, at length.

One of his biggest fears is that this won't work, that they will have to keep trying, that he will be disappointing.

Harry rubs his stomach in comforting circles and kisses his temple. "If it didn't, there's plenty more where _this_ ," he emphasizes his words with a roll of his hips, "came from."

Draco snorts. "You're so bullheaded."

"No, I'm just crazy about you," Harry tells him, like these are words that normal people utter without a hint of irony.

Draco reaches back for him. Harry takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. Draco's so smitten he doesn't know what to do with himself. They're going to be the most obnoxious little family on the planet.

"I mean it!" Harry insists. "And you're going to be great."

"I'm already great."

"I'm not doing my job if you can still be such a menace."

"Scared you can't handle me, Potter?" He teases.

Harry leans in to kiss him again, and his thoughts go fuzzy. "You wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right up my alley! Thanks for the prompt!
> 
> Woah, that month quite literally flew by. School has been a nightmare. As usual, even my for funsies writing was tiring me out and even thinking about returning to story-focused stuff is inconceivable right now. Do feel free to drop more prompts. Maybe filling some of them will help me knock my way out of this writer's block. Hope you're all doing well!


	7. Flutter (Al/Draco)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My mind went in the opposite direction of Classroom Hymns while I was working on the follow up and I couldn't get the stupid words "milf Draco" out of my head LMAO. Something short and fun and an excuse to toy around with a new pairing (Albus Severus/Draco). Al is about a year out of Hogwarts
> 
> Age Difference / Intersex Omegas / Wet and Messy / Secret Relationship / Mild Praise Kink

The elves at the Manor let Al in without question. They've been doing it for years, ever since Al first bullied his parents into letting him spend the night with the only friend he made in Slytherin. These days, though, they let him in with a delighted little twinkle in their eyes if he comes without Scorpius. They've been some of his biggest helpers in all of this, making food and scattering rose petals and placing notes in strategic places.

Tonight, he's lead to Draco's parlor, where he's resting on his velvet day bed with a book in hand. The elf who let Al in announces him with a happy squeak and then pops away.

"You're late," Draco says, voice flat. He's not looking up from his book.

Even angry--and Al can tell he's angry by the set of his jaw and his pursed lips, it's always been his one and only tell--he looks gorgeous. It makes Al unreasonably happy to see that he's only wearing one of Al's shirts, just big enough on him that it falls off of one shoulder, exposing the lacy strap of of a bralette.

"So I am." Al agrees, swallowing.

He doesn't think he's messed this all up, but he worries, sometimes. It took Al a lot to get Draco to see him as more than Scorpius' best friend, and even more for him to give them a chance. For many years, he was the kid Draco greeted with a hair ruffles, and then cheek kisses, and then busy fussing. Always with the fussing. He's the kind of mum who fixes ties and cleans up for their kid when they visit. Albus' mum has never been like that. He loves her for it--loves that she's loud and bright and unapologetic. She'd been his superhero growing up, sometimes he thinks it's only because of her that he's not a jackass Alpha chasing the high of a conquest. But the contrast is what intrigued him when he was young, and it grew into an attraction that Scorpius hadn't ever stopped teasing him for.

If there's one thing Al inherited from his dad, it's that he doesn't give up. So he takes a deep breath and approaches. Draco holds his gaze unabashedly, though he does soften when Al sits beside him and takes his hand. "What kept you?"

Al shrugs a shoulder, giving what he hopes is his best charming smile. He's too embarrassed to say he lost track of time flying. It sounds childish, somehow--unbecoming of a newly minted curse-breaker, and most importantly, of an Alpha. "Lost track of time."

Draco gives him one of those looks. Scorpius calls it the "yeah, right" look. Al hides his nervousness by leaning in for a kiss, sighing in pleasure and relief when Draco cups his cheek and returns it, tongue flicking out to meet his. It's a short kiss, because Draco soon pulls back, smiling wryly as Al lets out a whine of loss.

Draco slides onto the floor, resting his hands on Al's knees. Al mutters a low curse, which earns him a smirk. "You kept me waiting, Alpha. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Those words, combined with the almost predatory look on Draco's face, sends a hot wave of want rolling through him. He's on his knees, looking soft and diminutive on his shining marble floors, and Al knows he's completely in control. He always is. He loves it when Draco takes control.

"Um, I. Er, I'm sorry," Al babbles, as Draco leans forward and nuzzles his face against the seat of Al's trousers.

He can feel his cock filling as distressingly fast as it always does when they're together, twitching in anticipation against the soft pressure. Draco hums against him, the vibration making him give an involuntary buck of his hips. Draco chuckles, and it fills him with this hot mix of shame and arousal.

"I'm so, extra, very sorry." He adds, hopefully, and it earns him another hum.

He only just hides his whimper by bringing one of his hands up to his mouth. There are still some muggle things that Draco is adorably confused by, and the inner workings of Al's trousers had been one. Now, he undoes them with a single-minded ease, watching with greedy eyes as Al's erection bobs forth beneath his pants. Slender fingers cup him, and Al bucks up again.

"Draco, please," he says, hating the hoarse strain in his voice.

"Please what, love?" Draco's not even looking at him. His silken hair is hiding his face as he stares down. Al slides one hand into it, and he pushes into the feeling with a low, rumbling purr, the sound filling him with a hint of smug satisfaction. No matter how Draco plays around with him, he can't hide what that sound means.

"Suck me," Al murmurs.

Draco tugs impatiently at him, so Al lifts his hips with a sigh as they pull his pants down. One of Draco's soft hands wraps around the base of him, teasing at where his knot is already threatening to make an appearance. He kisses Al's tip, and when Al shifts restlessly flicks his tongue out at some of the precome already gathering there. Draco hates it when Al pulls his hair--it's short and finely textured, any good grip would need to be tight--so Al moves his hand away when he can feel the urge growing. He curls his fists into the day bed and prays for self-control.

Draco parts his lips and draws him in, the warm wet heat of his mouth drawing a moan straight from Al's throat. He bobs his head slowly, tongue sweeping over the vein along the underside of Al's cock, and when he nose reaches the dark curls at his base, swallows. It sends a ripple of sensation along his length. He squeezes Al's hip, and with a curse he matches Draco's leisurely rhythm, enjoying the sight of those lips stretched pink and swollen around him. Draco's looking up at Al from underneath the fan of his lashes, and there's a coyness there that he loves. Al decides that he should close his eyes or he'll come way too soon. He spends the next few moments with his head pleasantly clouded, fingers flexing into the velvet of the day bed, his toes curling in his shoes.

Draco moans loudly around him, and Al opens his eyes to make sure he's okay, only to groan at the sight of Draco's free hand working intently between his legs as he takes Al into his mouth, his face flushed. Al chances a heavy thrust into his mouth, which gets him another moan, and he just can't keep doing this.

"I don't want to come like this," he chokes out.

Draco pulls off of him with a pop, and with one last loving kiss on his tip he rises from the floor. He fails to hide his pained wince as he goes, and Al nonsensically reaches out to rub them with his hands, even though the redness of that pale skin--the evidence of what he'd just done--is delightful in a way he can't quite pinpoint.

"You want to come inside me, don't you, Alpha?" Draco says, cupping Al's chin. He's the picture of ruffled beauty, somehow still elegant with his eyes watery and his lips puffy.

Al nods dumbly up at him. Then Draco brings his other hand to Al's face, and the scent of him fills Al's nose. He pulls Draco's fingers into his mouth, savoring the heady taste of his arousal.

Once he's licked them clean, he pulls back with a kiss on the back of Draco's hand. He shucks his trousers and pants, and then struggles out of his boots. When he lays back against the day bed, striking a goofy pose with his head propped up on one arm, Draco laughs. He throws one leg over Al's hips, and before long he's pressing the wet lips of his cunt against Al's erection, a deep sigh rising in his throat.

Al cradles his hips, enjoying the feeling of Draco's arse filling his hands. He squeezes, and then his hands trail up, appreciative of the softness he finds beneath his oversized shirt. He can feel the zig-zag of a stray stretch mark, which he caresses with his thumbs, enjoying the shy squirm it elicits. He still hasn't been able to convince Draco to undress completely when they do this. "You'll find out just how old I am," he likes to say, spinning insecurity into a joke. Al's not good with words, so he's still trying to find a way to say that he likes the story in Draco's body without sounding like the cornball love interests in those Muggle romance films Scorpius pretends he isn't obsessed with. Most days, like today, he settles for keeping his own shirt on in a show of solidarity.

"Can I?" He asks, thumbing at the button of his shirt.

He's not expecting Draco to nod, so he gapes for a moment before doing just that. He doesn't want to push it, so he does it just enough to display the lacy bralette beneath. He cups one breast, rubbing his thumb curiously over the hardened nub of his nipple. Draco purrs again, grinding down against him. Al can feel the head of his cock parting those folds, bumping against his cock where it rests up top.

"Take it off?" He asks, gently.

He bites his lip, and then he's working his arms out of the sleeves of Al's oversized shirt. He wraps them around his waist to secure the shirt to his torso, and then puls the bralette off. Al can't help the way noise that falls from his lips. He leans in to take one pink nipple into his mouth, while the left rises to cup the weight of the other breast. Draco moans his name, slender fingers sliding into his hair. Al is Draco's opposite in this. The pain of his hair being pulled is good, grounding. Draco will tug on his hair to guide him, and he likes that, likes the surrender of it all. Draco pulls tightly as he rises up onto his knees, sighing when his entrance catches on the throbbing head of Al's cock. He slides down, taking him in with a moan. Al presses his face into Draco's neck, and starts counting back from ten as they both adjust. He can already tell that he's not going to last very long.

They settle into place, and Al watches as Draco begins a quick rhythm, lidded eyes taking him in. When Al plants his feet and tries to fuck up into him, he stops moving, lips quirking up into a smirk. Their little game continues this way, with him checking Al's impatience. He does like it, though--likes sitting back and letting Draco take what he needs, throwing his head back as Al nibbles at his chest and neck, marking that pale skin. He'll probably wear shirts with a high collar for a few days, because he doesn't like to heal the marks Al leaves behind. It's silly and lizard-brained, and he'll never say it aloud, but it gives him a proprietary thrill, to imagine proper Draco Malfoy savoring his mark.

Draco leans forward, a whine tumbling from his lips as he finds an angle that suits him. He can feel himself going deeper, spearing into wet walls that take him easily as anything, clenching tightly around him with each outward pull. Another of Al's impatient thrust stills him, though it's with clear reluctance, a little whimper falling from his lips. Al surges up to swallow the sound with his mouth. And then Draco does something with his body, rippling around him in this intense, pulsating press of his insides, pulling a loud sound from Al's throat.

"Holy--what the fuck--what the fuck did you just do?" Al says, around a laugh, letting his head fall back. He's going to die. He _has_ died. He's in heaven.

Draco laughs with him, and then with an impish little grin he does it _again_ , tensing all the muscles in his thighs and his pelvis, and Al can't help it, he can't be still any longer, he digs his heels in and grasps Draco's cheeks and thrusts up, up, up, pulling a surprised cry from Draco's lips. He catches himself easily enough, though, steadies his hands on either side of Al's head and moves with him, the slap of their skin loud and obscene in the parlor. He's lost in it, tits bouncing with each move, the dusky pink of his nipples fetching in the light filtering in through the nearby window. He's like something out of dreams, golden and flush and beautiful, all for Al.

"You're so good for me, Al," Draco gasps.

Al comes just like that, like a shot, gasping and sobbing his release into Draco's collarbone, knot pulsing forth. He moves a hand down just in time, fingers sliding slickly where they're joined, to grip at it, soothing the need to just punch it in. He'd love nothing more than to tie with Draco, but they haven't had that conversation yet. He can feel some of his release dripping out around them, trailing lazily over his balls and probably down onto the velvet below. Draco's writhing on his lap, moaning weakly. Al helps him off his cock, eyes drawn to the trail of wetness that connects them and then breaks. He goes easily as Al pushes him onto his back, so trusting that it has something catching in Al's throat.

He spreads Draco's thighs wide, licking up his slick and the heavy musk of his own release from his thighs, right up to where he's wet and tacky. He swallows Draco's cock down easily, and slides his hand to Draco's folds, holding him open.

"Just like that, love," Draco is saying, his words trailing off into incoherence when Al gives him two fingers, curling his fingers up, searching for the familiar spongy spot inside.

When he finds it, Draco's back arches clear up off of the mattress, cock twitching on Al's tongue. He comes with a keen, and Al glances up at him to watch it, gratified as the sight of him squeezing his own breasts, hair in disarray as he tips his head back. Al pumps him through it, heavy insistent thrusts. Draco pushes him away, but Al's stubborn, and sticks his tongue into cunt after pulling his fingers out, which sends Draco trembling through aftershocks, his thighs rising to close around Al's ears. Al groans at the taste of their mixed release. He keeps at it, jabbing his tongue in until Draco moans and comes again, a weaker thing that has his thighs trembling around Al's head. Al moves back, and those thighs fall open. Al kisses along them, and then shuffles up, leaning over Draco with a loopy grin.

"Hi." Al says, waggling his eyebrows.

Draco laughs. "You're chuffed."

"I like making you feel good." Al admits, shrugging his shoulder.

Draco cups his cheeks. "You're sweet."

It's things like this that make Al's heart flutter, whenever they're together. Very few people would call Al sweet with so earnestly. He's butted heads with his dad for what feels like half of his life, and he'd gained a reputation in Slytherin for an attitude that could only be soothed by Scorpius Malfoy's gentle hand. It's nice, to think that Draco sees something other people may not, that maybe he always has. Bashful and so pleased he doesn't know what to do with himself, Al rubs his face clean on the day bed. Draco groans and pinches him for it, complaining that he's a wizard, damn it all. He happily accepts a kiss, though, and wraps his arms around Al's shoulders when Al pulls him into a tight embrace. This could work, he thinks. He will make this work.


End file.
